


What We Have, We Have To Share

by Cheylock



Series: But He Couldn't Run Forever [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Acting, Alternate Universe - College/University, Child Abuse, Coffee Shop, Dancing, Exhaustion, Fear, Fear of Police, First Kiss, Fluff, Graphic Description, Grief, Hand Jobs, M/M, Making Out, Mild Illness, Musical, Musical: Les Misérables, Panic Attack, Paranoia, Past Abuse, Past School Shooting, Scars, Thanksgiving, Use of the Word 'Slut', auditions, body issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2017-11-27 17:49:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 77,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheylock/pseuds/Cheylock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is a self-described thespian, Isaac is a dancer, and they now go to the same college in the Seattle area. They went to high school together, but never really spoke, and they've kind of fallen a little bit in love since Isaac started coming into Yellow Eyes, the coffee shop where Stiles works, about seven or eight months ago.</p><p>Stiles thinks it's <em>destiny</em>.</p><p>Isaac doesn't really have an opinion.</p><p>Yet.</p><p>(Unsure of werewolf premise at time of post. Canon will be incorporated somewhat. Actor!Stiles, Dancer!Isaac, Director!Derek, Techie!Boyd, Musician!Scott, Singer!Erica)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Come In, Sir, For You Are Weary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lenfantduvendredi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lenfantduvendredi/gifts), [robbie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/robbie/gifts), [twahtohnedskee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twahtohnedskee/gifts), [therudestflower](https://archiveofourown.org/users/therudestflower/gifts), [burntotears](https://archiveofourown.org/users/burntotears/gifts), [GoddessofBirth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessofBirth/gifts), [kittys_devil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittys_devil/gifts), [Strangeredlantern](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strangeredlantern/gifts).



> I have no idea how many chapters this thing is going to wind up being holy crap. Also, dedications things have been moved around to one a chapter.
> 
> Lyxi, this was going to just be for you, but stuff happened and it got huge and so you just get to share a little, haha. You're spectacular and I think you're a fabulous writer! <3 I'm glad to know you and be associated with you, lady, and I'm proud of you! You're awesome!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles isn't at work, and that bugs the ever-loving hell out of Isaac.

Isaac is floating somewhere in fifth position when the hazel-eyed cashier hands him his caffeine, but he slams back into himself pretty quickly once he realizes what day it is and who is _distinctly_ absent. The ripped guy frowns and shakes his head at (presumably) Isaac’s stunned expression, no doubt mistaking it for immediate infatuation, but Isaac isn’t standing there with his mouth open because Hello, My Name is Derek is hot beyond all fucking reason, even though now that he’s thinking about it, yeah. It takes him a moment to actually find his voice, but the dude looks like he’s pretty used to it. Isaac chokes out some vowel sound and Derek visibly restrains himself from slapping a hand to his face and his stance shifts behind the counter and he says “Yes?” His voice is slightly unexpected, more elegant than gruff, and that helps startle Isaac out of his startlement.

“Sorry. Where’s Stiles?” Yes, he is on a first-name basis with the cashier/barista of the coffee shop he frequents after his Monday-Wednesday-Friday ballet class. And Stiles always works this shift on Monday-Wednesday-Friday, so yes, he’s worried. That’s not weird.

Derek’s facial expression thinks it’s beyond weird. Downright freaky. Isaac hasn’t earned a look like that since his miniature mental breakdown sophomore year. “Uh. _Oh_.” Derek’s face morphs again and it’s this appraising look that Isaac isn’t quite comfortable with. “You must be Scott.”

Isaac’s stomach drops and the jumble of emotions welling in his chest (jealousy, sadness, anger, vague humiliation) makes very little sense. He blinks a few times and swallows hard, then shakes his head. No, he’s not Scott. Whoever that lucky motherfucker is.

Derek looks confused now, eyebrows drawing together and lips twitching to the side. “Wait. What _is_ your name?” Derek leans forward and rests his forearms on the counter and Isaac can see how built he is, how positively fucking ripped, jesus christ. No wonder he gets away with wearing a grey tank top to work. 

Isaac thinks of flirting, and he knows he cuts a pretty sharp figure in his black long-sleeved leotard and black leggings with the overlarge high-necked dark green combat jacket over (the one that barely hits the middle of his thighs, the one he keeps zipped all the way to his neck) and his old scuffed combat boots. His dance shoes are in his duffel bag, but even without those he knows he’s some people’s kink. Tall but willowy, every muscle lean and precise, and the mop of curly hair and large blue eyes don’t take away from that—if anything, they add to it. He looks _good_ to some people, and he is very aware, and he is also very, very uninterested in whether or not he looks good to Derek. And he remembers how horrified Derek looked when he seemed interested about thirty seconds ago. Small comfort that Derek is just as uninterested in the reverse.

Isaac thinks about lying so he doesn’t have to bear the humiliation of Stiles knowing he asked after him and maybe saying something about it next week, but he doesn’t even have the energy to try, suddenly. “Isaac. Isaac Lahey. Nice to meet you.” He always falls back on his manners when he’s uncomfortable as hell, and he takes a giant swallow of his steaming hot carmel-almond machiacco and scorches the shit out of his tongue and throat, but he’s dealt with pain far beyond _that_ and the current bout doesn’t show on his face at all. He should’ve realized Stiles wasn’t here way before this—Stiles always asks if he’ll be drinking it now or later, and if he says now Stiles adds ice so he can _actually_ drink it now. Shit, he feels like he’s in mourning. ‘S not like the guy’s _dead_. Right?!

“Derek. Derek Hale.” Isaac extends his hand to shake and Derek shakes his head. Isaac isn’t judgmental enough to be offended. He had trouble touching people for years, he gets it. Or maybe Derek hates his fucking guts already, whatever. “Yeah, Stiles went home for a couple days. His dad might be…well, you know. He didn’t tell you?”

The assumption Derek is making right now is killing Isaac a little, because Isaac doesn’t know. He doesn’t even know where home _is_ for Stiles. Doesn’t know anything but Stiles’s favorite color and the shape of his face and about six billion ridiculous puns, since Stiles figured out they made him laugh. He’s been coming here since fall semester sophomore year, when he was still angry and confused and lost, and he’s _himself_ now, he thinks, the person he was always trying to be, and he’s a junior, and he’s just now realizing he knows almost nothing about the guy he’s had a ridiculous crush on for the better part of a year. Great.

So why does hearing Stiles’s dad might be some vague but surely depressing thing make his throat close up on him? He has to blink back tears and apply pressure to either side of his nose and squeeze his eyes shut for a second, every muscle in his body tightening up, because he’s being an asshole. In public. And he doesn’t even know if Stiles _likes_ his dad. His voice is a little choked, and it’s not because his mouth and throat now feel coated with sandpaper. “Uh. No. I didn’t. I didn’t know. I. I only really see him around…well…now. Monday-Wednesday-Friday.”

“Yeah, it happened last night. He probably didn’t get a chance to tell you. Hell, he barely told _me_.”

Isaac is grateful that Derek doesn’t ask if he’s okay, because Isaac has never been able to hold up to that line of questioning. He winds up running, and he doesn’t need to run now. He needs to see what else he can find out. He makes his eyes open and wraps both his hands around his coffee, a shudder working down his back. “Yeah, that explains it. Yesterday was Thursday.” Because that was fucking intelligent.

But Derek just nods musingly, like he’s thinking ‘hey, yeah, it was Thursday yesterday, huh,’ and Isaac decides maybe Derek doesn’t hate his guts specially. Maybe Derek hates everybody. “Um…is he gonna be okay, do you think?” That’s the important question, maybe he should’ve lead up to that, shit.

Derek shrugs and every muscle in his shoulders stands out. Isaac wonders if he’s a health nut or if he dances, too. Campus is pretty close, and Isaac half-suspects everyone he meets is a fellow student until he hears otherwise. “That depends on whether or not the old guy survives. If so, yes, he’ll probably be fine if he can catch up with his classes and he didn’t miss a Symposium or something. If not…” Derek opens his hands and brings them out, as if to say ‘who can say’, and yeah, no, that’s exactly what he meant, because about three seconds later he actually says “Who can say?” Yeah, Isaac hopes he’s not an actor. Guy doesn’t know how to let a gesture speak for itself. 

“Yeah. Yeah. Um. Thank you. For letting me know. And uh…for this.”

Derek nods, waves his hand, and says “Caffeine is really bad for you,” as if by route. Health nut then.

Isaac smiles and finally feels a little more solid, a little more himself. “Says the guy who works at a coffee shop.”

“Hey, it pays a debt. What can I do? It pays a debt.”

Isaac smirks. “Playing Fantine in _Les Misérables_? I didn’t even know we were putting that on this year.”

Derek looks impressed beyond reason, and Isaac assumes it’s because he pronounced the name of the musical correctly, and put a bit of a French twist on Fantine’s name. Good to know that six years of French did him _some_ good. “Directing, actually.” Woah. Okay, yeah, Isaac wasn’t expecting that. “You’d make an excellent Enjolras, actually. Can you sing?”

“I dabble.” In this school, two years of classes means exactly zilch since most of these people’ve been singing their entire lives. Isaac will give his voice ‘pleasant’, nothing better. His body’s different, but Derek didn’t ask about that. Isaac hasn’t really gotten used to the whole ‘sell yourself’ thing, doesn’t know if he ever will.

“Well come dabble at auditions, yeah? Three weeks from now.”

Isaac nods and gives Derek a more genuine smile. “Yeah. Will do. Have a good one.” He starts away, out into the semi-dark of the Seattle sunset. It looks like rain through the floor-to-ceiling windows and the glass door he’s heading out of, but that’ll only be unusual if he beats it before it starts coming down.

He waves when he gets to the shop door, out of habit, not really expecting anything to come of it.

Derek waves back.

 

Isaac feels like a drowned rat once he makes it back, as usual, and he gives the news of the musical to his roommate, Vernon. “Dude, they’re putting on _Les Misérables._ Gonna audition?”

Vernon doesn’t sit up—rather he bolts upright and sprints over and holds Isaac an arm’s length away from himself, eyes enormous. His usually stoic face is alight with excitement, and Isaac feels a little better. Well. Will feel a little better once he’s out of this wet spandex. His dance belt is starting to get uncomfortable. “Are. You. Fucking. Serious. Right. Now.” Vernon’s grin shows his perfect white teeth for once, and Isaac nods.

Immediately, Vernon releases him and does a spin in the room, surprisingly graceful for a man of his size. He’s not exactly _lithe_ , he’s a bit too bulky for that, but Isaac thinks he’s at least smooth. He can’t actually tell the shape of Vernon through his sweatclothes, the only thing he wears unless he goes out for something other than class (which is rare), but he’s pretty sure Vernon is a little smaller than he’s letting on. Isaac knows he works out obsessively, even though about eighty percent of the time he’s a tech and the entire _point_ is for people not to see him.

“God has finally heard me, dude. Do you have _any_ idea how bad I wanted this play on my resume? No joke, this is a gift, a gift from heaven, and I’m totally gonna tech sound, and I am gonna _kill it_.”

Isaac shakes his head and unzips his coat a little regretfully, knowing he’ll miss the warmth in about two seconds when the chill of their shared dorm hits him and yep, there it is, he’s freezing his perky ass off. He darts over to his dresser as he responds, grabbing his shower caddy and some flannel pajamas. “Yes, you are gonna kill it—but wouldn’t you rather actually play a part?” On the rare occasions he showers at the same time as Vernon, a deep and rich tenor cuts through the sound of the water, and he’s usually singing ‘Master of the House’, so it’s kind of an obvious question.

He might as well’ve asked if Vernon was four foot four instead of six-three, from the wide side-eying look he’s getting. “Hell fucking no, man. Are you shitting me? Who the hell would _I_ play?”

“Jean Valjean.” Isaac doesn’t even hesitate.

Vernon blinks, then actually colors a little, and shakes his head. “Well. The highest I’m gonna shoot for is ‘stage manager’, m’kay? I can’t even sing. I only took that one voice class as an elective, and I dropped it halfway through the semester, remember?”

Isaac does. They haven’t been roommates for more than seven months, since summer classes started and they both stayed to take them, but they were friends _long_ before that. Isaac remembers _why_ Vernon quit, as well. “Yeah, and you only quit because you liked it too much.”

“Nuh-uh! Don’t even, Isaac! I quit because it was—it was distracting me, I wasn’t—”

Isaac shakes his head and Vernon snaps his mouth shut. They’ve talked about this, sort of. Lying loudly. Isaac’s not good with it. “You quit because you started wanting to change majors and you were too close to graduating, which we both know is bullshit, because most of your classes’ll carry over. You can keep up your scholarship for the two years of classes you’d need to get a Bachelor’s Fine Arts degree in Musical Theatre and since you stay for the summer, too, you’d probably only have to keep it up for one. It’s your business anyway, I’m not telling you what to do, I’m just asking why you don’t do what you want. And you’re giving me shitty answers.” Isaac leaves the room without looking at Vernon’s face, simultaneously irritated at him and frustrated with himself for letting it go that far.

 

Once in the dorm showers, he peels off his tights, leotard, dance belt, and socks in one of the stalls and hangs them and his pajamas up just outside the curtain to steam. His boots he leaves directly beside the shower stall, because he only wears the jelly flip-flops to keep away foot fungus. One good thing about combat boots, especially his, they keep off the rain. Isaac has to take care of his feet, and of his body. It is his tool and his weapon. He is a combination sculptor and painter—his body is the chisel and his movement is the marble, his muscles are the brush and the bare air is the canvas. He is good at dance. It is the only thing he will admit to. He stands tall and looks down at himself, surveying the damage.

His knees are a little red and swollen, which is likely because he’s freezing his ass off and he got drenched, which isn’t uncommon but isn’t really good. Old scars stand out puckery and pale on his skin, and he skims them without inventorying them or reliving them like he used to. They’ll probably never be gone, but he’s lucky, because he’ll probably never have to dance with bare legs. At least there aren’t any new ones. His hands are faring a bit worse than the rest of him, his left swollen and painful, as it almost constantly is because of the weather. The fingers of this hand’ve been broken enough times that it hurts anyway, deep down where the bones didn’t quite knit together correctly, and all it means is that he has to bind it for support when he’s actually dancing. It’s not that bad.

His muscles ache, but that’s also common. It’s the good ache of long work. His teachers commend him because he doesn’t whine or slow when the lactic acid builds up and they start to burn. They hold him up as an example to the other straight-faced dancers who waver from exhaustion while Isaac stands in sharp relief apart from them, _better_ than them, because of training most of them probably wouldn’t care for. He never comments or smiles when his professors do this. Thus, most people in the dance department think he’s snotty, but at least they respect him for his talent. At least, he thinks they respect him. They might just be ignoring him.

He turns the water on warm and gets in, sighing in relief already, wishing he could pelt his skin with burning hot water but knowing it wouldn’t be good for him _or_ his muscles. His thoughts return again to Stiles, and he worries for him, and wonders about him, and gets completely lost in the thought of him.

 

He’s in much better humor once he returns to the room, and all he wants to do is curl up under his blankets and pass the hell out, but he has a musical to re-read. Vernon waves at him from his computer, and Isaac assumes he’s forgiven, if Vernon was ever mad in the first place.

He curls up under the blankets with a towel around his wet head and reads by his lamplight, getting immersed, making humming noises as he goes over the songs, and he jumps when Vernon speaks and totally misses whatever he said. “Huh?”

“If I go for Valjean you have to go for Enjorlas.” Isaac looks over and Vernon’s eyes are squeezed shut, his hands fisted against his keyboard, and he’s shaking a little. Isaac knows better than to say anything. Vernon’s as bad about running as Isaac is.

Isaac just says “deal” and goes back to the play.

 

The next Monday he’s more sore than usual. Ms. Ernsdale pushed him way harder than she does most days, which he’s grateful for because pushing helps you grow, but when they push so hard that you actually fall…yeah. Less awesome. Isaac’s proud of the fact that he hasn’t fallen because of _himself_ in over four years…or he _was_. He’s actually limping a little as he opens the door to Yellow Eyes, not glancing around for Stiles yet, because he’s not used to bruises anymore, and he’d forgotten. He’d forgotten the way they feel on his skin, like he has something to hide. It’s making him itchy. He’s probably going to go for a run tonight, even though the coming rain’ll probably soak him to the bone. He’s probably going to _have_ to.

He’s understandably a little bit glassy-eyed as he walks up to the counter, and he doesn’t really see the quasi-smiling face droop into a sad little frown. He _does_ hear the voice though. Fuck, sometimes he hears that voice in his sleep. It always makes his breath catch a little. Stiles only says 'hey' but it's enough to wake him up.

He blinks and shakes his head, and smiles full and open and with every single one of his damn teeth when he sees Stiles standing there, though when he takes in Stiles’ expression he freaks out. “Hey. I missed you. Derek’s coffee burned my mouth. Are you okay? I was worried.” So when Isaac gets freaked out he starts blurting the truth and confessing things he really shouldn’t, shut up, his dad hit him a _lot_ , alright?

Stiles’ cheeks color which of course makes Isaac’s, and he returns Isaac’s smile with a bright one of his own, but Isaac can see the way it catches at the edges and it worries him. “Hey. Yeah, I’m alright. Sorry, Derek’s not exactly the best at customer service. Don’t worry, he won’t be back, he was just covering for me. I’m glad he didn’t get me fired. I missed you, too.”

Isaac tries really hard to pretend that that last sentence doesn’t make him feel like he’s about to swoon.

Stiles starts making his drink, doesn’t even need to be told what it’ll be (Monday is mocha latte day), but he looks back at Isaac with his bottom lip in his mouth. “Um. Do you want a shot of whipped cream or something, dude? You don’t look so hot. Well, okay, you look _hot_ , but you look like something’s wrong.” Stiles’ ears turn red at about the same moment Isaac’s jaw drops open and Isaac watches him whirl around, back to the coffee. “ _UM_. Yeah, sorry, I don’t—none of my business.”

Isaac looks around a bit and, upon realizing that the shop is empty but for some girl taking advantage of the free WiFi with huge headphones in, he figures he might as well tell. He leans on the counter heavily, taking all the weight off his slightly painful leg and letting his head droop. He follows the white lines in the black marble with one finger as he speaks. “‘S okay. I fell today. My hip is fucking killing me. I went to the student health center right after—’s why I’m late—and it’s fine, just bruised. But that haughty little medical bill for the X-ray’s gonna come up and bite me, I’m sure of it. Do whatever you want to the drink if you think it’ll help, Stiles. ‘M just looking for something to warm my hands while I walk back to campus in the rain.” As if on cue, the rumble of thunder, like horses’ hooves on the roof, shakes his eardrums. Lightning’s a little less common than the downpour. Isaac sighs. “And that, apparently.”

“You know, if you can stand to wait, oh, an hour and thirty, I can give you a ride.”

Opportunity couldn’t be knocking any louder if it was the rain on the roof and Isaac looks up, feeling his eyes pop wide with surprise. He’d honestly almost gone home after the student health center, but he wanted to see if Stiles was back. Looks like going almost twenty minutes out of his way was worth it. “Um. Sure. Do you—do you go to the university?” Isaac is a little horrified that they hadn’t had this conversation already, honestly. Almost a year and he hasn’t stayed long enough even once to find out of they go to the same school. Too afraid of making an ass of himself.

“Seattle Performing Arts? Yeah, man, I’m a junior there. Go Wolves, or something. I’m in the Theatre department—you’re in Dance, I’m assuming?” At Isaac’s nod Stiles breaks out into a grin. “Not for me at all. Give me a list of steps to memorize and I’m good, but making up choreography, improvising, actually being creative with all this off-stage—” Stiles gestures to the rest of his body as he gets some things out of the fridge and Isaac licks his lips, only half thinking about it “—ain’t happenin’. What dorm’re you in?”

“Whitehall. So you’re an actor?” Isaac can’t say he’s exactly surprised. Stiles is gorgeous, Stiles’s eyes are fiercely expressive, Stiles gestures more than a deaf person who needs to go to the bathroom…yeah. Not surprised.

“Dude! I’m in Greenwall! How have I never seen you on campus? I wouldn’t say _actor_ , exactly—I’m pretty versatile.” Stiles wriggles his eyebrows and winks suggestively and then bursts out laughing, and Isaac is paying zero attention to whatever Stiles is doing to his drink right now, he’s fucking eating this up. “I’m actually technically going for a degree in directing, but I do a little bit of everything. True thespian and all that. Fingers crossed for Grandaire in this upcoming production. Personal soft spot. Oh, but—no seriously, how haven’t I run into you?”

Stiles turns with this huge concoction in his hands and Isaac eyes it doubtfully. Holy shit that’s got to be a lot of sugar, he’s never sleeping tonight. “Dude, ‘cmon, I wouldn’t steer you wrong—it’s good, I promise.” He smiles a little lopsided and Isaac reaches out and drags the drink to him. Their fingers touch, the ones on Isaac’s bad hand, and Stiles’ hands feel perfect and as warm as the porcelain of the mug and Isaac’s stomach flops in a _good_ way.

“I dunno, Stiles, it’s a pretty big campus and I keep to myself most of the time. We dancers don’t have to be social unless we’re in a recital or we’re backing up the theatre department, and I’ve had a scheduling conflict with the last five plays, so.” Isaac shrugs and takes a sip and— “Holy _shit_ what did you do to this? Oh my god this is awesome.” He starts pretty much guzzling it, and when he looks up at Stiles he is perfectly aware that there’s whipped cream on his nose. He feels the sugar and caffeine rush almost instantly, and it’s _wonderful_. He straightens up and tests his leg, and even that’s feeling better.

Stiles shakes his head. “My secret.” Then he leans forward on the counter and waves Isaac close. Isaac leans, and all at once they’re conspiratorially hunched together, noses, foreheads, mouths, almost touching. Stiles looks like he’s trying not to laugh, and Isaac is feeling much the same. Then Stiles looks left, looks right, leans his head a bit farther forward and speaks right up against Isaac’s ear.

Isaac shivers in great waves and completely misses whatever Stiles said, but he giggles anyway, whispering “One more time. Little hard of hearing.” He _is_ (too many long hours in the nature preserve near where he used to live dancing his ass off with a iPod strapped to his upper arm and the headphones blaring as loud as they’d go), but that’s not why he missed it. Stiles’s breath tickles, and it smells strongly of chocolate. Like he’s been dipping into the shop’s supply. Isaac puts a hand over his mouth to press back his laughter.

Stiles pulls back and gives him a half-smile that’s probably the most teasing thing Isaac’s ever seen in his entire life, before leaning over to his other ear, even _closer_ …so close he can feel Stiles’s lips move against the shell of his ear, and Stiles’s face has to be half in his hair but he sighs anyway, just a little release, and his eyes flutter shut as he tries to listen, because Stiles has made his voice tiny.

“My secret is that there’s everything in there but the peppermint syrup. And you know what makes it even sweeter?” 

Isaac shakes his head just barely, not wanting to dislodge Stiles and totally unsure if he can even speak.

“It’s on me.” Stiles pulls back and that little smirk is still playing on his lips, and oh _hell_ yes, two can play at this game.

“Oh, is it? Funny, buying me coffee without even having to ask. _And_ you’re taking me home. Is this how you get all your dates?”

Stiles’s eyes pop wide and he laughs out once, bright, pitchy and excited, before he reigns it in.

It’s the most fucking beautiful thing Isaac’s ever heard.

“Mhm, yep, totally how I get all of ‘em. See, despite how _fiendishly_ charming I’m sure you’ve noticed I am, I can’t actually get a date to save my damn life. Gotta trick you into it, otherwise you’d never agree.” Stiles scrubs a hand through his semi-short hair and Isaac wishes that was _his_ hand trailing through the dark locks, which is kinda weird, because he usually doesn't wanna do that so early.

“Psh, _agree_? Are you kidding me right now? I’d run screaming until I hit the ocean, and then I’d jump in and pull an Ophelia. _Me_? Let _you_ take me on a date?” The light’s starting to go out of Stiles’s eyes, and Isaac thinks maybe he’s not pulling off the whole ‘sarcasm’ thing worth a fuck right now. He takes yet another swallow and shakes his head before swiping the whipped cream off his nose and holding it on the end of one thumb, examining it for a moment, before looking up and making eye contact with Stiles, who’s watching him with dark eyes that make a bolt of heat zing down Isaac’s spine and shoot straight into his cock. He smiles to himself, grateful both for his combat jacket and his dance belt. Black tights showcase an erection like nobody’s business. “No, you’re way too hot for me. I doubt you’d even _want_ to.”

Stiles wants to. Isaac knows this from the way his eyes follow Isaac’s finger to his mouth. Isaac takes way longer than necessary cleaning it off, and he’s blushing high in his cheeks, but there’s no mistaking the hungry look on Stiles’s face.

This is very good. Isaac likes this. Two years ago, he’d never’ve been confident enough to suck on his finger while he was looking at the object of his affections _who might have a boyfriend,_ his brain pipes up, and shit, he’d forgotten about that. He’s a lot of things, including but not limited to a cocksucker and a perpetuator of the fucking ridiculous stereotype that all male dancers are gay, but he doesn’t ever want to be an aider and abettor to a cheater. Fuck that. He knows how that feels.

He pulls his finger out of his mouth and settles it back around his mug, sucking down more of his ‘coffee’ and being careful not to get more of the whipped cream on his nose.

Stiles remains frozen with his mouth just slightly open for about ten seconds. Isaac resists the urge to do a very inelegant fistpump.

“So…Isaac.”

Isaac lifts his eyes up to Stiles’s and raises his eyebrows, saying ‘yes’ without opening his mouth again, feeling a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach despite Stiles’s semi-smouldering tone. _This is the part where he tells me he has a boyfriend. Or that he’s not gay. Or that I’m right_.

Stiles coughs and rubs the back of his neck. He looks first at the ceiling, then at the counter, bouncing up and down on the balls of his heels. Like he’s trying to make himself say something, which is hilarious, because Stiles doesn’t seem like the type of person to have trouble with speaking. “Well…uh. I totally want to. Go out on a date with you. Are…are you busy Sunday?” And, as if it’s an afterthought: “You’re pretty fucking hot yourself though, you know?”

Isaac does, but it’s still nice to be reminded every now and then.

“Sunday’d be good.” The relieved look that sweeps over Stiles’s face and the way his whole body relaxes down onto the counter with a muffled ‘ _yes_ ’ makes Isaac think maybe Stiles wasn’t totally joking about not being able to get a date.

People are fucking idiots.

 

Isaac is grateful beyond words when he sees the bulky blue Jeep parked directly by the back door of the shop, under an overhang and out of the wind. He might actually get home dry. He grins at Stiles and Stiles holds the door open for him and bows him out, which makes Isaac giggle again. He tests the car door, and it’s locked but there’s no alarm, which is a little weird. He doesn’t comment, though—just looks up at Stiles and wow okay holy shit Stiles is really close to him. ‘Kissing distance’.

This should be a very good thing, this should be an awesome thing, but the fact is Isaac is kind of not good with what would be considered ‘intimate’ touching still, like he’s never had sex fully naked and he can’t help thinking about the fact that Stiles is close enough to hit him and oh, oh, okay, okay, Stiles just needed to unlock the door from this side, okay. Holy shit, way to have a heart attack for no reason, Lahey.

“Hey, you okay?” And of course he was that obvious.

He coughs and slides a little way down the car. “Mhm. Fine. ‘S just really dark without the inside light on.” And fuck, yeah, now that he’s thinking about it this little employee parking area is dark as shit and kinda bullshit and Isaac isn’t good with the dark, either, that was the whole reason he moved to a big city like this—so it’s only dark if he wants it to be.

And he pretty much never wants it to be.

“Yeah, I keep telling them we need lights out here, but you know. Minimum wage slave speaks, bourgeois swine ignore. No, no, Laura’s really cool, but she apparently has like crazy night vision or some shit and she’s never worried about being out here and what the fuck am I even talking about? Dude, I’m sorry, I’m usually better about keeping the rambling in check, here.” Stiles opens the car door for him, and the little dome light comes on, and Isaac can’t help but smile.

“I like it when you talk.” Stiles looks up at him like he’s never heard anyone say that before, this mixture of awe and confusion that makes Isaac a little sad, because Stiles should definitely hear that all the time.

After Stiles gets the heater going and they pull off into the safety of the streetlights, Stiles says, “So are you afraid of the dark?”

Isaac looks up at him sharply, ready for a grin or a jab in the ribs or something, but Stiles’s eyes are on the road and one of his knuckles is in his mouth. His posture is shit, he really needs to sit up—and now that Isaac is thinking about it, yeah, his is, too. He straightens up. Gotta take care of that spine, he _uses_ that. “Yeah, kinda. ‘S why I moved here. New York was my first choice—city that never sleeps and all—but Julliard wouldn’t take me with my three-point-nine GPA and lack of extra curriculars, so SPAU was it.” Isaac sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and starts peeling skin off it with his teeth.  He’s never admitted that about Julliard, to anybody. Not even Vernon, who went by Boyd then, and who also applied there and got rejected.

“You know, I think every Wolf applied to Julliard.” Stiles shrugs and half-smiles at him before looking back to the road. Isaac thinks he’s concentrating a little hard on it. “Yeah. Lacrosse doesn’t count as much of an extra-curricular if you never play a single game. Still pisses me off that they check that and actually _call_ your coach and stuff. Fuckin’ Finstock, man.” Stiles shakes his head and Isaac is totally, utterly frozen. Holy fuck. _What_. “He was my totally insane coach back in high school, I swear, a three second conversation with him was like three concussions at once—Isaac? Isaac, dude, are you okay?”

Isaac is shaking and he has a hand clamped over his mouth. For a second he thinks he’s going to open the door and run, he thinks he’s going to throw up and scream and never, ever speak to Stiles again, ever. God _damn_ Beacon Hills. It’s hard enough to stay friends with _Vernon_ , even though Vernon’s just as determined to pretend their lives didn’t actually begin until they started college, because Vernon's from there, too, Vernon knows the person that Isaac used to be...at least sort-of.

Finally Isaac finds his voice, and he straightens his spine a little more. He _uses_ the thing, goddamn it. “Mhm. I’m okay. I also think I went to high school with you. So. There’s that.”

Stiles laughs a little and looks at Isaac with a semi-wariness that’s irritating, to be honest. “Uh-huh…yeah. Okay. Hi-larious. Seriously, what’s wrong?”

Isaac gives Stiles a look that tries really hard to be scathing but just comes off as a flat ‘what the fuck are you even talking about’ stare. “Beacon Hills High School. In the scenic town of Beacon Hills. Less than a thousand students in the high school. Nature preserve like a mile and a half out of town. The Jungle. I was jersey number fourteen.” A spark of recognition lights Stiles’s eyes and Isaac shakes his head back and fourth, left right left right no no no. “Now can we maybe never talk about it again? Please?”

Stiles’s eyes have grown steadily larger with every word out of Isaac’s mouth and he has his mouth open huge. There’s the tiniest smile on the edge of his lips. “Are you fucking kidding me? This is _so_ cool, Isaac, this is…this is like…fate or something! This is crazy! Why aren’t you freaking out right now? I’m freaking out!”

And maybe Isaac misread the situation a little. “I—what? _Why_ are you freaking out? Why do you sound so _happy_?” Isaac fucking hated high school, any part of it coming back up is just not his idea of a good day.

“ _We’re from the same town_. Never met ‘til we moved to _a huge city_. And went to _the_ _same college_.”

Isaac blinks a few times. What the fuck? Stiles is apparently a hopeless romantic. Usually this kind of thing makes Isaac want to gag, but honestly right now it’s kind of…sweet. He’s probably still on a sugar high from that ridiculous drink, though. “So what are you saying exactly? We’re soul mates?”

Stiles lets out a bright burst of laughter, shaking his head, but his smile is contagious and Isaac is infected within seconds, because that wide toothy grin is just so fucking _gorgeous_ it’s a little hard to comprehend. “Maybe not that, no, but we’re _something_ , Isaac. Can’t you feel it?”

All Isaac can feel is a vague sense of apprehension. “Um. All I really feel right now is happy that you’re happy?” He shrugs a little and another burst of laughter comes from Stiles. “What?”

“Oh my god, you’re a total, total cynic. You’re adorable.”

Isaac feels himself blush and he looks away. “I’m gonna do that cliched thing where I say ‘no I’m not I’m a realist’, okay?” Stiles laughs again. “ _What_?” He turns back and crosses his arms, getting a little pissed off now. If he were actually making a joke that was funny, this would be acceptable, this would be awesome, but he's not exactly doing that.

Stiles is still laughing as they pull into the dorm parking lot, in a space directly in front of Whitehall, which Isaac can see vaguely through the rain. Greenwall is four dorms farther down, and he supposes he should be grateful that Stiles is being considerate, but he’s not grateful for much of anything right now. He’s starting to think that setting up a date for Sunday was a mistake. Just vaguely, but it’s there.

“No, no, no, I’m sorry—Reality is Ralph!”

Isaac is pretty sure his total confusion is very, very clear on his face at the moment. “The fuck are you even talking about, Stiles?”

“ _Isaac_ , I _know_ you read _Lisey’s Story_ , it’s the whole reason I even checked the book out—” Stiles sobers up and Isaac discovers something to be grateful for. And wait…

“Did you seriously read a book because I was reading it?” Isaac’s a little stuck on that part.

Stiles’s blush consumes all of his visible skin and Isaac smirks a little. “I…yes, I did that. But really, you remember, right? ‘Reality is Ralph’! The dog that came home to the family three years after they lost him in Florida. And he found them in like Ohio or something. That’s a real thing that really happened.”

Isaac remembers. The author in the story (not Stephen King, the writer he was _writing about_ , Scott Landon) used the phrase to explain the improbable things that happened in his fiction, like two people meeting again after so much time’d passed, or someone getting the same taxi driver they got on their first day in the city when they were leaving three or four years later. “So…so you’re saying that this…this is a Ralph?” It makes sense, Isaac supposes.

“Dude, no—okay, well, yes, this is totally a Ralph, but lookit—Reality. Is. Ralph. So unless you’re an insufferable optimist, you’re not doing the ‘realist’ thing right, sorry.”

At least Isaac sees what was funny now. “Mhm. Well, Stiles, see, it’s not that I’m not sickeningly positive—I mean, I’m not, but that’s not the point here—the point is that I’m not a totally hopeless romantic.” He half-smiles at Stiles, putting an extra twist on his smirk.

“So…so what are you? As far as…romance goes.” Stiles makes a vaguely sweeping gesture at the word ‘romance’ and Isaac smiles a little more fully.

“Uh? Not really a ‘candlelight and roses’ kinda guy, to be honest with you. Well. I wouldn’t really know. Nobody’s ever tried candlelight and roses on me.” Isaac laughs and shakes his head. The windows are starting to fog up even though Stiles’s turned the car off. People are totally gonna think they’ve been making out in here.

“Oh. So…I mean…do you do the…the… ‘open relationship’ type thing or…?” Stiles is wincing _hard_ , almost like he expects Isaac to—no, no, Isaac isn’t going there again.

He can’t help but cackle a little though, just for show. Stiles’s face drops completely for a second before Isaac reaches out and touches his wrist, lightly, gently. If Stiles moves to cover his hand, he’s probably gonna have to take it back, but touching his warm skin, just barely feeling the wool of his jacket…it’s good. “No. No ‘open relationship type thing’ here. If I’m dating you, I’m dating _you_ , the end. And if you cheat on me, do not pass ‘go’, do not collect two hundred dollars, go directly to ‘fuck off and don't bother calling’. I mean, some people can do the ‘open relationship’ thing, but I’m not one of them, sorry. And—you know—just because I’m not gonna throw rocks at your window and serenade you with my boombox doesn’t mean I’m only looking to fuck you, okay? And holy _shit_ , I didn’t mean to say that, sorry…I think I’m crashing.” Yeah, holy shit he was exhausted all the sudden, that caffeine buzz hadn’t lasted long at _all_. He let out a huge jaw-cracking yawn and looked at Stiles a little ruefully. “Uh. Feel free to just not respond to any of that. I know it’s just like…one date, and all that, I just—”

Stiles’s wrist moves under his hand then, and slides down, and Stiles’s warm fingers are closing over his cold hand and he just closes his eyes because if he looks he’ll think about it too much. He just lets himself feel.

“‘S good to know. All of that. I don’t do the not responding thing, though. As you’ve probably noticed. And I don’t cheat, either. So that’s good. Now c’mon—we should probably get you to bed, dude. What floor do you live on? Do you have any homework tonight?”

Isaac squeezes Stiles’s hand and then pulls his own away and opens his eyes, but the lids of them go _slow_. He cracks his door open and there’s apparently a lull in the storm, because he’s only pelted with a few droplets. “No homework I can’t do before Wednesday. Fourth. C’mon, or we’ll get wet getting there.”

“‘K. Can I hold your hand on the walk up?”

Isaac starts a little and looks at Stiles then, heart suddenly racing in his chest. Stiles looks a little worried, like he’s pretty sure he’s about to get rejected, but…but Isaac’s never had anybody _ask_ before. He gets out, grabs his duffel out of the floorboard, and closes the door.

From the sad look on Stiles’s face as he comes around the Jeep, he thinks he has his answer.

Isaac takes his hand about three steps away from the car and Stiles jumps about a foot in the air and tries to subtly fist-pump (a truly impossible feat, and Isaac should know—he’s tried it before).

It’s the cutest thing Isaac’s ever seen in his life.


	2. What Spirit Comes To Move My Life?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is kinda freaking out about going on this date with Isaac, so he calls his dad for some comfort. His dad proves kinda worthless at reassuring him today, but Scott doesn't do a half-bad job, and Isaac...Isaac is pretty great.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Robbie, you seriously keep me going, dude. You're lovely and insanely sweet and every positive comment is like a ray of sunshine in my life, I just--I can't even with you, dude. You make me asdklf, you beautiful shipper, you. :D I absolutely adore you.

Stiles tries to tell himself he’s acting like an idiot. He really, seriously does. But he just can’t help it. He’s going out with Isaac in less than three hours and he’s nervous beyond all reason, so he calls his dad, just like he would a few hours before a big audition. Being entirely self-reliant isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

“Dad?”

“Still here, kiddo.” Their connection’s way better than usual. Stiles thinks it has something to do with the fact that he’s on the floor with his legs against the bed in his thankfully (appallingly) empty dorm room. Scott, his best friend and roommate, is off with his private mentor today, working his plucky little acoustic guitar to the neck. Scott’s gonna practice his classical stuff tomorrow, so his upright bass is in the corner, and Stiles is having a staring contest with it. He keeps losing.

“Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” He keeps his voice strong and steady—it’s been almost a week since his father’s massive coronary, but if Stiles thinks about it too much he’ll go into panic mode, and he’s sick of having to shove his head between his legs to calm his silly ass down.

His dad sighs on the other end, crackling static. “Mhm. Feelin’ fine. Now what were you going to ask about before I sneezed?”

Stiles lets his foot jog up and down. “Yeah. Okay, so. That guy? The one that always comes in for coffee?”

“Isaac? You’ve mentioned his name before, Stiles, what’s this about? Did you finally ask him out?”

Stiles rolls over onto his stomach, falling onto the rug a little more fully with an ‘oomph’ that’s almost indignant. “No. Well, yeah, that happened. We’re going out later today. To Wild Ginger? It’s supposed to be really good…but look, he’s from Beacon Hills, Dad. Seriously. I went to school with him. High school, probably elementary, but whatever, I knew him without knowing I knew him. This is…kind of a big deal.”

“Mhm.”

“Wow, Dad, sound more enthusiastic.”

“Stiles, you just seem like…maybe your imagination’s running away with you? I’m sure you went to school with plenty of people who—”

“Who come in my work _specifically_ to see me three days a week since last April? Who look like _that_ and make me laugh? No, Dad, I don’t actually go to school with many people from Beacon Hills who do that.” He doesn’t sound _angry_ exactly, just damn determined to have his say, because he _is_ , Dad-in-hospital or no Dad-in-hospital. That probably makes him a terrible fucking person. Shit.

“Mhm, okay, I’ll give you that o—oh.” It’s a soft sound, almost like his dad’s been punched in the gut, and suddenly Stiles is clutching the phone to his ear and kneeling fully on the carpet, heart rabbiting in his chest, totally sure he’s about to hear his dad kick the bucket—

“What’s the kid’s last name?”

Stiles breathes out a sigh and crumples against the carpet in the fetal position, eyes popped wild. “Holy _fuck_ Dad, don’t _do_ that, I thought—I though you were—are you okay?”

He hears another cracking sigh on the other end. “Yes, son. I’m fine. Are _you_ okay? Sounds like you’re maybe having your own little heart palpitation over there.” And his dad is… _jesus christ_ his dad is laughing.

Stiles sneers out “Yeah, maybe,” reacting like a total two-year-old, but his irritation gives way to relief fairly quickly. If his dad’s joking around, he’s probably okay. Probably. Stiles has seen him laugh with a bullet wound in his forearm, though. “I’m okay, you just seriously gotta be careful with the random noises into the phone now, Dad. You’re gonna scare me to death.”

Stiles’s dad laughs, a real one, a decent one, and Stiles can’t help but smile and let out a grudging little chuckle. “Yeah, yeah, _I’m_ gonna scare _you_ to death, good one, kiddo. Now—what’s this kid’s last name?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “ _Daad_. He’s 21, same as me—he’s _not_ a kid. And his last name is Lahey.” Stiles purposefully ignores his dad’s use of ‘kiddo’ for himself. He’s gotta give the old guy _some_ room to operate.

“21 is totally in the category of ‘kid’, kid. Lahey…” Stiles can tell his dad’s tasting it, trying to bring up any and all memories of the name. “It sounds familiar…” _Not_ good. Now Stiles is getting a little worried. He sits up and leans against his bed, trying not to work himself up again.

“How familiar? Like ‘Matt Dahler Injures Eight Students, Kills Self’ familiar, or ‘I think that kid was on your lacrosse team’ familiar? Because he _was_ on my lacrosse team.”

His dad’s voice goes gruff, as it always does when the Dahler thing comes up. Senior year was a bitch. “Nothing like Dahler, no…I think…I’ll have to call Marty at the station and find out if I’m right, but I’m pretty sure he was a runaway we apprehended once or twice. Weird. I dunno, I’ll call when I know more, ‘k?”

Actually, no. Not ‘’k’. Not ‘’k’ at all. “Look, Dad, I get that you’re goin’ all Sheriff Mode and you’re trying to look out for me, but that’s not really my business. If Isaac wants to talk about that kind of thing, then he will, but I don’t want you gummin’ up our works with your police work thing, okay? Please don’t pull a Javert or something and track him down over like a stick of gum he stole six years ago or something crazy like that. Please.”

“You know that’s not how it works, right, son? I’m gonna check him out. I have to, you’re my _son_ , it doesn’t make me a—a Javiar, whatever the hell that is. I tell you what—I’ll only let you know if I find something serious. Okay?”

Stiles discovers that his hoodie string has magically relocated to his mouth. He tugs it out and rolls his eyes at both himself and his father, mostly because of the whole ‘pronouncing Javert like ‘Ha-vi-air’ instead of ‘Shh-ya-verr’. “ _Sure_. If he’s committed…I dunno, patricide, give me a ring. Yeesh. I’m gonna go get ready now, okay? I’ll probably call you Tuesday, okay? And you call before then if you need me, yeah?”

“Yeah, son. Love you. Have fun on your date.” His dad’s voice’s gone a little tired, and Stiles is wondering if the sedative drip started up early.

“Love you, too, Dad. ‘Bye.” He waits until he hears the click of the hospital phone and stays on the floor for a couple minutes, eyes flicking back and fourth on the ceiling, thinking and planning and making himself nervous as hell.

 

He digs through two years’ worth of accumulated plaid short-sleeve button downs before he finds it. _It_. The perfect jacket for this occasion. It’s cut in the style of a suit jacket, a nice light grey color, and it’s comfortable as hell, but it looks _good_ on him, and it’s warm. He debates for a second over a graphic tee or a button down—well, agonizes really, but he wants to look fucking _good_ for once, not ‘acceptable’. Finally Scott shows up, guitar in hand, and Stiles holds up two shirts—a smoke-black tee shirt he hasn’t worn since high school with absolutely nothing on it (rare beyond reason) or a pure white tuxedo shirt he’s never worn before—without a word.

“Go with the white one. Allison’s got me watching _Queer Eye for the Straight Guy_ and they say that’s cool. You freakin’ out yet?”

“Aw, would you shut the hell up, Scott? That show’s old as hell…it’s probably out of date…” That’s Stiles-n-Scott speak for ‘fuck yes’.

“ _Dude_ , relax. It’ll be fine.” Scott walks over and flops down on Stiles’s bed, which is good, because it means he’s not gonna make Stiles suffer by himself.

“Whatever. I’m gonna wear the tee shirt.” He peels his current lounging shirt off and tugs on the tee, but he sighs when he realizes how tight it is. “Goddamn it.” He fingers the hem for a second…would’ve been a good color combination, this _sucks_.

“What’re you damning exactly?” Scott strums a few notes that Stiles doesn’t recognize, but it’s upbeat and happy and it kinda makes Stiles want to punch him out of nowhere. He’s seriously starting to go into panic mode. Shit.

“It’s too _small_ , dude.”

Scott looks over him with appraising eyes and Stiles hunches his shoulders in and crosses his arms “What?”

“You look hot.” Stiles’s eyebrows shoot up and he starts to smile a little, but Scott doesn’t elaborate or anything, just goes back to staring at the ceiling as he plays. “What pants’re you wearing?”

“God, how much’ve that have you watched? I was just gonna go with my good jeans…the really dark blue ones? Would that be okay?” When the fuck did _Scott_ become the person to ask about this shit? Stiles usually had to beg Scott’s awesome and badass girlfriend to help him pick out his date night outfits (of which there have been eight since he started college, and none of them lead up to a second date). She has qualifications, as a Fashion Design major at the multi-disipline college across town.

“We’re almost done with Season 7.” Yeah, okay, that explains it a little. “The dark blue ones’ll be fine. Shoes?”

“Uh…my…my Converse?” Scott’s shaking his head at the ceiling. Apparently Stiles isn’t wearing his Converse.

“Nope. Other options?” A little bit of a clearer melody is picking up—sounds like “Good Feeling” by Flo Rida, and Stiles takes a moment to admire how well it transfers to guitar before he answers.

“Why not? I’ve got…semi-new Nikes from that whole ‘track’ fiasco, Iron Man shoes—”

“Those.”

“Seriously?” Those are the gaudy high-top Adidas that’re actually _sparkly_ gold and red, a gag gift from his dad. His normal blue All-Stars are way more subtle.

“Seriously. It adds…flair. You’ll actually look…you know, stylish. Where’re you going?”

Stiles is starting to feel like he’s being quizzed. “Wild Ginger for dinner, and then I was thinking maybe the Rhombus Room for drinks afterward, if he wants? I mean, I think he’ll be down for some dancing and I still know how to samba and ballroom dance and shit, I think that’d be fun. We’re taking a cab to the restaurant so if he has to be horrendously plastered to hang out with me and I have to get depressed-drunk because of it nobody dies on the way home. Acceptable?”

Scott’s mouth twists to the side, and yeah, this is starting to feel like a test or an audition or something. Stiles is going from grateful that Scott showed up to semi-irritated and ready to be alone again.

“Nah.” Yeah, he definitely wants to be alone again. “The Rhombus Room is a total club joint, Stiles, what’re you even thinking? Unless you wanna grind on his ass or want him to grind on _yours_ , hell no, don’t take him there. I mean, I’m sure you’d have fun and all, but I think that’s at least third date material. You’re trying to impress him, right?”

Stiles is tense all over and he has his lips turned into his mouth. He’s glaring, but Scott doesn’t see—he’s playing something that sounds like _Fly Me To The Moon_ and jogging his foot up and down as he stares at the drop ceiling. Grudgingly, so grudgingly he can’t even believe he’s doing it, he grits out ‘yeah’.

“Why don’t you take him to Club Fenris then?”

Stiles blinks a few times and then rolls his eyes and strips out of his pajama pants. “Dude. That place is fucking geriatric and you know it. What the hell?” He locates his jeans on the top shelf of his closet and tugs them down and then starts wriggling into them.

“Hey, fuck you, there’s nothing wrong with old people. It’s _huge_. The food is awesome. It has a legit soda fountain. And a _dance floor_. Big circular thing, remember? With a chandelier right above and everything. And the best freaking Teriyaki chicken I’ve ever had in my whole life. You should totally skip the restaurant-and-club bit and just take him there.”

Once Stiles has his jeans buttoned, he actually considers it. It’s not a half-bad plan, he’s just slightly pissed that he didn’t think of it. “Allison is really rubbing off on you, dude.”

“She is, huh?” Scott smiles at him, the exact same huge goofy grin he’d warn the day Allison’d transfered to Beacon Hills High and actually talked to him and was really sweet to him after he got beaned—and concussed—by a ‘stray’ ball. Stiles distractedly wonders if it’ll ever wear off for Scott, if he’ll ever be less love-struck.

Stiles seriously doubts it.

 

After roughly twenty frantic minutes in which he couldn’t get the proprietor on the phone to make reservations, a deep, smooth, and very familiar voice says, “Club Fenris, Peter Hale speaking. How may I help you?”

Stiles’s former Movement I teacher, once upon a time the far far away land of freshman year. And he directed the first play Stiles was in. Crazy. “Hey, Professor. Picking up a shift to help pay for dog food?” It was a joke Dr. Hale’d often made when speaking of the tuition-hoarding board that runs Seattle PAU—that he didn’t even get paid enough to pay for his golden retriever to live off of, let alone himself.

A rueful laugh drifts to him down the line. “No, actually, the owner’s a relative and she’s a little ill, so here I am. How may I help you, Mr. Stilinski? Or, if you prefer, ‘what’s up’? ”

Stiles swallows and instantly feels like he’s back in class again. Dr. Hale was the only person who ever called him ‘Mr.’ anything, and still does whenever they see each other around campus. He forces out a little laugh that doesn’t sound forced because he’s had a lot of practice with that kind of thing. “Yeah, um, actually, has anyone cancelled their reservations tonight? It’s a little…it’s a little important. Like ‘in two hours’ important. Do you think you could help me out, sir?”

Dr. Hale laughs a little, this tiny chuckle that oozes chill. _Shit_ is Stiles still jealous to hell and back of how suave this guy is. _He_ probably doesn’t have to agonize about his outfit or the venue when he’s taking somebody out on a date. “It’s not as though our waiting list is a half-mile long. I’m sure I can squeeze you in. Do you want a nice impressive reserved table, or would you prefer our waitstaff to name drop once you get there, instead?”

“Um…” That kind of deal isn’t really Stiles’s bag, and it seems like the type of thing an uber-rich douchecanoe would pull. Stiles wants to be impressive, but he doesn’t want to be an assface and he’s not quite _that_ desperate. “No thanks, sir, but I really appreciate the reservation. Just—just under ‘Stilinski’, yeah? How—how crowded is it going to be tonight, do you think?”

Dr. Hale makes this semi-considerate sound in the back of his throat and Stiles can practically determine his facial expressions through the phone. You _know_ when someone acts for the stage, especially if they’re _good_ at it, because ‘subtle’ isn’t really in their vocabulary. Not that that’s a bad thing or anything, it just makes for some amusing phone conversations. “Maybe 70, about a third of them over 70. It’s not Ladies’ Night, thank god, so at least you won’t have _that_ to deal with. Lesbian couples making out in every corner. I swear, some people have _no_ modesty.”

Stiles gives a relieved little laugh. “Thanks, Dr. Ha—”

A clattering noise comes from the other side of the connection and then Dr. Hale’s saying “Sorry, _massively_ sorry, sorry as a death-row criminal is about a second before the electric chair, good bye Stiles see you at 8!” Then there’s a click. Stiles stares dumbfounded at his phone for a whole five minutes before he manages to text Isaac.

 **You** : Hey, you okay with a change of plans?

He bites his lip and starts pacing in a circle, right in the space between his bed and Scott’s. Scott has headphones in and seems to be working on something with a lot of brightly colored squiggly lines on his laptop. Stiles wonders if this has anything to do with that whole ‘Scott wants to be a DJ at some point maybe at least once’ thing and is just about to go look when his phone buzzes in his hand. He opens the text with some (lots) of trepidation.

 **Isaac** : are we talking reschedule or cancel here

This is the first text he’s sent, and the first he’s received from, Isaac, and yeah he’s being soppy and weird but he can’t help but stare at it for a second, fistpumping because Isaac spells all his words out, even if he doesn’t use punctuation or capital letters.

 **You** : Dude, neither, I meant change of venue, not not at all. Is that okay?

The answering ‘sure’ (properly capitalized and punctuated) actually makes Stiles laugh out loud. It’s not a big deal at all, he’s acting like kind of a tool, getting so happy over a stupid text.

But at least he’s a happy tool.

 

Stiles leaves the dorm fifteen minutes early, because he’s punctual like that, and heads over to the semi-deserted quad, their agreed meeting place, right across from where the cab’s going to pick them up, where…where Isaac is sitting already. Stiles can see that he has earbuds in from here, so he doesn’t bother waving or anything. He just looks.

It’s actually not raining tonight, which is good, but it’s cold as fuck. Thanks, November. Isaac’s hair is glinting all _kinds_ of gold in the bright high-powered lights that chase away all shadows. His perfectly graceful arm comes up, clad in a soft-looking white shirt, and does the most interesting and intricate swoop Stiles has ever seen. A random stray though pops up— _glad we don’t match_ —and is gone. He shudders a little just looking at Isaac, though. He’s not wearing a _coat_ , he’s probably freezing his ass off. Then even his concern is blunted, because Isaac’s head’s bent low and Stiles isn’t seeing him at a good enough angle to see what he’s looking at.

Curiosity overrides all other impulses (as usual) and he finally starts to move again, and as he gets closer he can hear a pulsing baseline throbbing somewhere. He’s pretty sure it’ll fade out, it’s probably just a passing car, but as he moves still farther forward he realizes it’s actually coming out of Isaac’s _earbuds_. Holy shit, he probably wasn’t kidding when he said he was hard of hearing, how could he not be?

Finally Stiles makes out ‘ _good feelin’_ and apparently reality is being Ralph, because Scott totally played that earlier, _wow_. As he watches, Isaac’s whole body kind of… _undulates_ and it’s simultaneously the sexiest and most visually interesting thing Stiles can remember seeing a human body do. Stiles reaches out and pauses, hand right near Isaac’s shoulder, but Isaac’s head remains resolutely down and Stiles can’t see what his headphones are attached to so he can’t just pause it, and he decides to do the kind thing and wave his hand in front of Isaac’s face, but down low, towards what he has just realized is a book.

Isaac doesn’t even react for a second, like he’s finishing a sentence or something, and his face remains resolutely blank as he look up at Stiles. Stiles feels his heart drop to his fucking knees—what the hell did he _do_?

Then it’s like a light switch is flicked somewhere in Isaac’s head and he smiles huge and yep, okay, that’s Stiles’s heart lifting off and landing somewhere in a galaxy far far away, holy shit. Just…holy shit, Isaac’s face just lighting up like that when he realizes who it is…yeah, _that’s_ a fucking good feeling.

Isaac tugs his earbuds out in one gesture, long enough for Stiles to hear the dubstep breakdown whatever-the-hell thing that’s totally his favorite part of that song, and then Isaac’s pulling an an iPod classic out of his pants and the music stops. Isaac just looks up at him with that grin and winds his headphones up onto the body of his iPod.

So after they stare at each other in silence for another thirty seconds, Stiles blinks a few times and then remembers— “ _Oh_. What’re you reading?”

“Um…” Isaac blushes a little and then stands, unfolding his ridiculously long legs, currently clad in black jeans. His shirt’s half-tucked into his pants and it looks sexy on him. Stiles is sure if he tried the same thing he’d just look rumpled as shit.

Stiles has the ridiculous thought that they look good together. No, more than that. Better than that. _Right_ together.

Goddamn he really is a hopeless romantic. _Shit_.

Isaac bites his lip and holds a well-loved paperback out for Stiles’s scrutiny, and Stiles immediately grins when he sees the author. “Robert A. Heinlein? _Awesome_. I didn’t know you liked sci-fi stuff, dude. I haven’t read this one— _The Moon is a Harsh Mistress_. It sounds really cool. Is it good? I mean, by the state of it, probably, but I just gotta be sure.” He half-smiles and Isaac takes the small paperback and magically manages to fit it in his back pocket.

“It’s awesome. Maybe even better than _Stranger in a Strange Land_. Definitely better than the second half. Have you read _that_?”

Stiles nods and extends his hand. Isaac looks minutely uncomfortable for a second and he’s about to take it back—he can go however slow Isaac needs, he’s honestly not worried about it. His dick and his hand are very well acquainted, thank you very much, and his hand is very used to being firmly in his own pocket and not enveloped in soft warmth like it is now and okay holding hands is apparently a thing that’s cool. Stiles has a brief moment where he things ‘no shit we’re 21 we can get drunk holding hands is nothing’, but when his fingers close over the back of Isaac’s hand…it feels like something.

“Mmm. So…so how’ve our plans changed, exactly? No more dinner?” Isaac looks a little unsure and uncomfortable, and Stiles wants to make him look totally secure, like he had about three seconds ago.

“Still dinner, just a different place. Have…have you ever heard of Club Fenris?” When Isaac shakes his head, Stiles leads him toward the archway that leads off the quad, around campus, and downtown. “It’s this uh…well, it’s a restaurant, but it also has this huge dance floor, and they play mostly classical stuff but sometimes jazz singers come in and stuff, too…so…yeah. It’s really classy and cool and…and um…your face is twitching a little, are you okay?”

Isaac’s face is actually twitching a _lot_ and Stiles is starting to freak out a little when Isaac bursts out laughing, like _hard_ , and leans against Stiles and lets Stiles take some of his body weight and Stiles would probably be irritated if Isaac wasn’t laughing into his shoulder right now, that was pretty fucking nice.

“Um? What the fuck dude? What’s funny?” He’s not _quite_ laughing with Isaac, but he doesn’t sound mad.

Isaac laughs for another couple seconds before picking his head up and looking at Stiles with these heavy eyes that are totally getting Stiles hard, goddamn but was he glad his cock was positioned decently in his pants so it wasn’t painfully obvious. “ _Stiles_. You’re going to take a dancer. Dancing. On his one and only off day.”

And shiiiit Stiles hadn’t even kind of thought of that, goddamn, if Isaac took him to a play and made him participate or signed him up to be an extra on _his_ only day off, he’d probably…well, honestly he’d be kind of amused, but he’s not sure if Isaac’s amused or exasperated with him. “ _Shit_. I’m sorry. If you don’t want—”

“ _No_ no no, it’s not _that_ , it’s not that I don’t want to, I just—it was funny. But uh. I’d really like to dance with you.” Isaac smiles this quiet little smile and pulls away and stares off in the direction they’re walking and then Stiles with this funny little twist in his mouth. “So are we taking the bus?”

“Mhm. I’m totally taking you on public transport on our first date. _Totally_. That’s happening.” Isaac blinks at him and actually looks _confused_ , so maybe Stiles was smiling a little too big for the sarcasm to carry through. Stiles rolls his eyes. “Isaac. I’ll catch us a cab once we get farther inland, toward civilization. Sound good?”

“Why aren’t we taking your jeep or the bus or something? I mean—wouldn’t that save money?” Isaac looks genuinely concerned over it, and he squeezes Stiles’s hand gently. Normally that kind of frugality and questioning would irritate him, because he has a fucking plan and he wants to stick to it, but with Isaac it’s a little different. He just thinks of it as a good trait, a quality that’ll be useful in the future, assuming they _have_ a future. Which is a pretty big assumption to be making. Where the fuck is his head even at anyway?

He shakes it to clear it and realizes Isaac is still looking at him with that worried face, and Stiles doesn’t even think about what he’s doing, just leans forward and barely presses his lips to Isaac’s cheek, which, once again, shouldn’t be a big deal, 21, in college, neither of them virgins…presumably? Well, _he’s_ not, but he has no idea about _Isaac—_ No, fuck, no, he doesn’t need to be thinking about that. His brain kind of shorts out when his lips reach Isaac’s skin (which he is massively grateful for), chill with a hint of warmth underneath and surprisingly smooth and Isaac is totally frozen but maybe that’s not a bad thing? Maybe? Fuck.

He pulls away and watches a slow, surprised smile spread over Isaac’s face, and Stiles smiles with him. “Well, we _could_ just walk, if you don’t mind wandering around the city after dark for about fifteen blocks. Thoughts?”

Isaac brings a hand up to his face and barely brushes the place Stiles’s lips touched. It feels like someone’s lighting a giant fucking lantern in Stiles’s chest, he can’t help it or anything else, all he can do is beam helplessly as he waits for Isaac to respond.

“Whatever you want to do, Stiles.” It’s so _quiet_ and awestruck, Stiles has to squeeze Isaac’s hand a little.

“Okay, we’re sticking to the original plan, then. Taxi there, taxi back. That way we can drink if we want.”

Isaac looks up at Stiles with his eyebrows scrunched together, and Stiles is feeling distinctly judged. What _now_? “Stiles, I have school in the morning. _You_ do, too. Have you ever tried ballet dancing with a hangover?”

Shit, yeah, Stiles hadn’t thought about that either. “Um…no, no I have not, but from the horror in your voice, you totally have. _And_ you don’t want to again. So. Um. Wanna just take my car? We should just take my car. C’mon.” He tugs Isaac in the direction he came from, back towards the dorms and his jeep, trying to ignore the embarrassed thunder in his chest and the blush he feels burning his cheeks. Goddamn it, he’s usually better at this part.

“So maybe next time we work all of this out beforehand, yeah?” Isaac doesn’t sound mean or patronizing or anything, it sounds like an _actual_ _question_ and not some passive-agressive way to let him know he fucked up, and Stiles pauses with the jeep in sight, unable to even really process that.

“Um. Stiles?”

Stiles turns back to Isaac and he grins at him, hard. “You’re awesome. Yeah, we’ll work this part out next time. Sounds good. Sounds really good.” He lifts Isaac’s hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to the back of it, and he can’t say that he wasn’t thinking about it this time because he _totally_ was and he just honestly doesn’t even give a shit if he gets called on it, because Isaac _is_ awesome.

He doesn’t get called on it. Isaac just blushes some more.

It’s not ‘til they’re pulling into the parking garage that Stiles realizes that Isaac basically just said he was down for a second date _already._

Stiles is getting a _really_ good feelin’.

 

He’s been to Club Fenris about four times all told, and he remembered it being classy but holy shit. He half expects to see people wandering around in ball gowns, what with the high ceiling and the car-sized chandelier and the freaking _three-floor set up_. It doesn’t help that there’s gilt everywhere and marble statuaries and just holy _hell_ it’s a nice place. Isaac lets out a soft ‘oh’ and Stiles looks back at him, being led by their fingers laced together, blue eyes huge and flicking from place to place, seemingly trying to take in everything at once with a soft little smile lighting his features. Yes, this was a good choice. Scott gets props for this.

The hostess they approach, with her podium that looks more like a solid gold choral stand, is in business casual, thank god, so it’s not like Stiles feels horribly out of place or anything. At least not for the most part. She raises her platinum eyebrows at him, at sharp odds with the deep shade of her skin, and smiles a semi-welcoming smile, revealing absolutely perfect white teeth. “Good evening. Name?”

Stiles manages a nervous little grin. “Evenin’, ma’am. Stilinski?” He knows Dr. Hale’d _said_ he’d set them up, but Stiles can’t help but feel apprehensive. This is the first time he’s ever been asked for his name at the entrance to a restaurant.

“And I’m Eloise. Nice to make your acquaintance. Your table’s on the second floor, sir, right along the center of the curve. If you’d follow me, please.”

They make their way out of the square receiving area and into the circular combination dining room and dance floor, Eloise’s heels making soft thumping noises on the carpet, and then louder clacks against the polished cream marble of the dance floor. Stiles keeps leading Isaac, amused and a little entranced by the kid-like wonder in his eyes. Once they get to the staircase that leads up from the side of the stage (where a small band playing something classical—Stiles is pretty sure it’s Vivaldi) Isaac seems to snap back into himself a little and blushes high on his cheeks, which just makes the whole thing even cuter for Stiles. He tugs Isaac up level with him as they climb. “‘S really nice, right?”

“ _Stiles_. It’s…it’s _amazing_. Thanks for bringing me here.” Isaac squeezes his hand and Stiles giggles, hardly conscious of the relief that floods his chest.

“Hey, thanks for coming. You know, in the 1950’s, this place used to be a dance hall for Seattle elite. ‘S why it looks swanked out all to hell. A couple token renovations and then _boom_ , restaurant for the proletariat and bourgeois alike. Don’t ask me why, nobody knows, but it does pretty okay.”

Isaac blinks a few times, eyeing Stiles with what Stiles hopes is new-found appreciation but could possibly just be your standard ‘can’t tell if you’re talking out of your ass’ appraisal. “That’s really cool. How do you know so much about it?”

Maybe it’s both? Anyway, here’s the perfect time to name drop, to make his information seem like more than what it is…and he’s not going to take it. Fuck that, Isaac seems suitably wowed, better not to make an ass of himself by making something out of nothing. “Well, you remember Derek? His family owns and operates this place—branch of cousins, I think, I’m not totally sure on the details—and we eat here for our theatre banquets and after-show parties, ‘cause the drinks are free as long as we provide the owners with tickets for our shows. They get row E. The whole thing. Fair trade, I think. I get regaled with the history of this place by drunk Hales every semester or so, so. Yeah. That’s why.”

Isaac nods a little and when Stiles looks up he realizes that Eloise has lead them to their table, and god knows how long he’s left her standing there while he was talking to Isaac, she probably has shit to do. _Damn_. “Sorry about that, Eloise.”

“Not a problem, Mr. Stilinski. The waiter will be around in a few moments. Enjoy your dinner, gentlemen.”

Stiles gives her a smile and a wave and Isaac’s movements match his almost exactly, but of course more graceful. As they sit, Stiles teases him about it. “God, dude, you’re like a swan or something, can you give the whole ‘look at me I’m a graceful Greek god’ thing a rest? It’s starting to get distracting.” Stiles tips a stupid wink at Isaac across the table, and Isaac blushes high in his cheeks and looks flabbergasted for only a fifth of a second.

“ _Hey_ , being graceful as all hell is totally a full-time job. I take a break for you, I might not ever be able to get back into my groove. And don’t compare me to a _swan_ , Stiles, not only is it cliche, it’s _inaccurate_. Swans are terrifying and mean and they like to make this huge loud scary _squawking_ nose. Pick a really big cat or like a deer-type thing to describe me, m’kay? Holy shit though are you seeing this chandelier? I bet this is the best table in the house, holy crap.”

“Is antelope acceptable?” Stiles could compare Isaac to wild, wild animals all night, however freaking weird _that_ is. “The view is pretty goddamn incredible.”

Isaac looks back at him, and when he realizes Stiles isn’t looking over the open balcony at the chandelier hanging at just above eye level, he blushes, smiles, and then locks his eyes on Stiles’s. Stiles feels like the breath’s being pressed out of him, like air isn’t a thing he gets anymore. “Antelope works. And mhm… ‘incredible’ is a good word.” The table is just barely small enough for them to hold hands, and they do.

 

“You’re sure?” Isaac bites his bottom lip and Stiles has to force himself to look up into Isaac’s eyes, because his even white teeth pinching down and wrinkling the reddish-pink and insanely smooth skin of his bottom lip is too distracting.

“Totally sure. If you don’t get whatever you want for dessert, I’ll be disappointed. Hugely. So what’ll it be? Chocolate lava cake? This weird jellied tart thing? What do you think?” Stiles isn’t even kidding. He’d be willing to shell out any amount of money to keep Isaac’s company at this point. And the best part is, he probably doesn’t even _have_ to. Isaac’s been making doe eyes at him for the last half-hour—ever since Stiles mentioned that he volunteers at the ASPCA at least twice a month.

Isaac maybe has a thing for animals. It makes Stiles like him even more.

Another blush (probably the eightieth of the night, if he counts his own blushes, too) steals over Isaac’s face and he says something in French that has Stiles’s cock jerking in his pants. Shit, he could’ve said probably any innocuous phrase and it would’ve gotten Stiles hot. ‘Can you pass the silver’ or ‘your face smells like dogwater’…Stiles thinks anything sounds sexy in French. At least when Isaac says it, _goddamn_.

“Um…Stiles? Is that…I mean—you’re staring…” Isaac smiles almost guiltily and drops his eyes to his lap, and Stiles blinks a few times. Yeah, his mouth was totally hanging open, and he _was_ staring. Greedily.

He coughs, and it would be awkward if he wasn’t basically trained to make any and everything he did sound normal. “Mmm, sorry. You uh—you know French? What did you just say?”

Isaac blush deepens and he shakes his head. “Uh. I have—you know, working knowledge of French. I know how to pronounce things and I can read it and if it’s spoken slowly I can understand it? Um…it’s a…it’s a split dessert? ‘S chocolate cake for two with vanilla bean ice cream? Does—does that sound okay to you?”

That actually sounds fucking fantastic and romantic as hell. Their waiter, Ethan, seems to magically appear out of nowhere, as he has every time they’d decided on anything. The guy’s getting a huge tip. “Sirs?” And he kept calling them shit like ‘sirs’ and ‘gentlemen’ and it was making Stiles feel _really fucking cool_.

“Um, mhm, the uh…” He trails off and looks at Isaac questioningly, silently asking him to order it, because Stiles can _mimic_ a French accent if he practices for long enough, and probably the words if he has a tape to practice with, but he has no idea how to say that…that thing.

Isaac says it with a little smirk, eyes on _him_ instead of their (undeniably hot) waiter and yep, Stiles’s cock responds even more enthusiastically than earlier. He keeps thinking if he had the chance he’d crawl all over Isaac and lick every single strip of his skin, holy _shit_ he’s seriously just the hottest person ever and Stiles wants to do intense things to him, everything he can think of…and have things done _to_ him, which is a first. Stiles likes his control. A lot.

Ethan says ‘very good, gentlemen’ and then glides off, and Stiles has no idea how long it’ll take to get the cake or whatever but it’ll be way the fuck too long because he wants to sit closer to Isaac right fucking now, and you know what, fuck it. He picks up his chair under the edge and awkwardly walks it and himself around the table and beside Isaac, and Isaac is giggling which is okay because Stiles is pretty sure he looks fucking ridiculous but he really could not care less if it gets him closer to _that_.

Once the legs of his chair are firmly settled on the carpet, he looks around and feigns surprise when his eyes find Isaac’s. “ _Isaac_. When’d you get here?”

Isaac snorts laughter and very lightly nudges his shoulder and Stiles’s heart flies and flutters against his ribs. The grin that spreads over his face is broad and bright and shit-eating. Nobody, _nobody_ thinks that’s funny except for him. Nobody. Not even Scott.

“Oh, you know, like an hour ago, maybe fourty-five minutes, I’m not really sure. You? Wait—” Isaac’s eyes narrow. “How do you know my name?” A small smile’s still playing on his lips and he doesn’t look even _kind of_ mad but Stiles blushes and hides his face in his hands for a moment to cover, because Isaac doesn’t just think it’s funny, Isaac’s _playing along_ , and Stiles is gone. He’s just…gone.

“No! I’ve been found out! Discovered! My cover’s blown!” He moves his hands away from his face, reaches over, and takes both of Isaac’s, holding them gently, looking into his eyes sincerely and with feeling. Isaac looks like he’s either about to spontaneously combust or fall out of his chair laughing, Stiles can’t tell which, but he’s gone dead silent, too, and is regarding Stiles with those quiet nowhere-near-baby blues with a solemnity that causes a bolt of white lightning to go up Stiles’s spine, because for a second all he can think is _he’s looking into me_.

But Stiles is committed now, it’s not like he can stop. “Isaac, you’re under surveillance. I’m a secret agent, but I’m not from any agency you’ve ever heard of, I can assure you. We—we want to recruit you.”

Isaac leans back a little but doesn’t take his hands back, and rolls his eyes up to the ceiling, jutting out his lower jaw and gnawing on his bottom lip obviously. “Okay, this isn’t gonna be like that time I was contacted by a ‘modeling agency’ and they only wanted to take pictures of my cock, right?”

For the first time in like six months, Stiles is thrown during a session of improv. Improv is his _thing_ (well okay he has a _lot_ of things but _improv is a big deal_ ), he’s fucking good at this, and Isaac has him practically choking on his own tongue. What the hell?

No, okay, that’s not fair. He knows ‘what the hell’. Isaac just mentioned his cock and his brain is short-circuiting and about a billion dirty pictures are flashing through his brain all at once and his face is redder than a goddamn cherry—

“Your—” the series of French words is repeated, all lilting and just slightly flem-y but not nearly as entrancing as when Isaac said it “—has arrived, sirs.” Ethan settles the tray between them and Stiles blinks a few times and shakes his head back and fourth, but as he finally pulls his head out of his ass long enough to say ‘thank you’ he realizes Ethan has fled.

“Uh…Stiles? You okay? Did I accidentally hit the reset button on this thing?” Isaac feels along his hands and he’s smiling and laughing a little but Stiles is pretty sure there’s real worry in his face.

“Huh? What? Sorry, I feel like something just stung me—” he reaches a hand to the back of his neck and feels around, dragging his head slowly around towards the chandelier and squinting. “Something like a minuscule needle dosing me with just enough memory wiping fluid to forget that my cover was blown. Weird.”

Isaac jumps a little and Stiles looks back at him quickly. “Huh. Like…like a minuscule needle, you said? That…that _is_ weird…cake?” Isaac touches the back of his neck distractedly and grins at Stiles and Stiles feels like he’s hovering six feet off the goddamn ground.

“Cake.” Stiles opens his mouth expectantly and Isaac visibly shivers and Stiles’s head tips to the side, trying to figure out why, and then he starts thinking maybe this is weird, feeding somebody on the first date is weird, right? Then he’s thinking that feeding _anybody ever but your child_ is weird and _shit_ this is weird he’s such a strange-ass person and oh wow this is like the richest chocolate cake ever, this stuff is _really_ good…

His eyes open a little wider once he realizes that Isaac just slid a golden dessert fork with a frosting-smeared bit of chocolate cake on it into his mouth. And Isaac is now drawing a bite of cake into _his_ mouth with the same fork. So Isaac has some of Stiles’s saliva in his mouth and they pretty much just indirectly kissed and Isaac just fed him chocolate cake probably worth about six hours’ pay from the taste.

And Isaac says he’s not romantic. Pssh.

Okay, well, he might’ve needed a little push from Stiles to get him going, but he’s freakin’ romantic.

 

So Isaac doesn’t feed him anymore but gives Stiles about a third of his ice cream once he realizes Stiles loves it infinitely more than the cake and Stiles gives Isaac about a third of his cake once _he_ realizes Isaac loves it infinitely more than the cold stuff and Stiles thinks this is going excellently. Amazingly. Spectacularly.

But then they’re done with dessert and it’s probably the finest meal all told Stiles has had since the theater banquet last May. He swirls a finger through the ice cream dribbles and sucks the tasty stuff off his hand without thinking about it.

At least he wasn’t thinking about it until Isaac licks his lips hungrily.


	3. And The Shirt On Your Back Doesn't Keep Out The Chill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and Isaac both have control issues, but Isaac's are very different from Stiles's. Isaac is more forward than he can ever remember being, and Stiles doesn't want Isaac to be cold.
> 
> Isaac doesn't want Stiles to _anything_ but be with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And for Zoe, always for Zoe. She's seriously my angel and she's lovely and I wouldn't know what to do without her. Also she's talented as all mess, so there's that. <3 Love you, lady!

The dance floor is huge and beautiful and clean enough to eat off of and Isaac wants to dance here. Wants it so bad he can practically _taste_ it. There are about fifteen couples all swathed in their own respective spaces, doing a slow waltz that isn’t at all what Isaac wants right now. Isaac wants to tango, to samba, to _swing_ , to be drawn against Stiles in dazzling heat, to spin and swirl and exist in the moment.

A lot of his classmates claim that a man can’t take the place of a woman in any traditional partner dance. The woman can take the place of a man, but men aren’t flexible or graceful enough to take the place of a woman. Any time Isaac’s professors hear these arguments, they call him over and make him dance with the person who makes these claims, regardless of gender. The professors always look smug as hell afterward, and the person who doubted doubts no more, because Isaac is a genius at giving up control, at becoming a beautiful and engaging rag doll as the other person leads him in whatever they can think of. He may not be as visually interesting as a lady in a dress, but that could easily be remedied—it’s just that no one’s ever made the suggestion to him before, and it’s not something he cares enough about to do on his own.

Taking control, that’s a little more of an issue for him, so when Stiles takes his hand and pulls him farther down the staircase, all but buzzing, and says “Will you lead? I’m okay, but I’m not in _school_ for it or anything,” Isaac’s limbs threaten to lock up.

It wouldn’t be a big deal if this were an assignment, but this is dancing for pleasure, an occasion so rare for Isaac that he considers it as sacred as his annual visit to Beacon Hills Cemetery during Christmas holidays. And pleasure does not and has not _ever_ involved leading. In any way.

Stiles seems to sense his trepidation and tugs him over into a shadowy sunken alcove just off the stairs that Isaac didn’t even notice when they came in. There’s a small plush velvet couch inside and Isaac wonders for a second if this room is used for more than taking a rest when overheated. “Isaac, you know you don’t have to, right? I mean—we don’t have to dance at all if you don’t want to, okay?”

He looks down at the floor and his ears burn. Suddenly Isaac feels ashamed, mostly because his issues are causing issues and that’s always a reason to want to bundle himself up in his nice safe covers in his nice safe bed and just _not come out_. “Uh. I want to. Would you—I mean—fuck. I don’t lead, usually, it’s—I dunno. Will you?”

Stiles visibly calms down and Isaac worries at his lower lip, now just slightly tender from the amount he’s been working it. Then Stiles puts a hand on his face and Isaac doesn’t think, just leans into it, forces himself to ignore that vague copper fear taste way back in his throat. But the hand is gentle, and soft, and it feels…good. “Sure. I mean, I might suck. I will very likely not be as good as anyone you’ve danced with in recent memory. I—”

“Stop.” Isaac closes his eyes, because Stiles is giving him a wincing look that reminds him too much of his old self, and his old self would be freaking the fuck out because there’s a strange person touching his face, regardless of how _much_ he wants this person to do that very thing. “Stiles. I have absolute confidence in your dancing ability. This is for fun—I want to have fun with you. We could do the swaying thing like at a middle school dance and I’d have fun. ‘Cause _you’re_ fun. So don’t make excuses for yourself, because I’m not here to pass judgement on you or anything. I’m here to dance with you. So dance with me and continue to impress me with your l33t skills.”

And Stiles takes his waist, right here on the velvety carpet in this little side-room. For a second Isaac thinks that Stiles is taking him up on his statement/request/demand and dancing with him _now_ , but then he realizes…Stiles is hugging him.

Isaac can count on one hand the amount of times he’s been hugged in the past five years, so if he almost cries, he feels like he can be excused.

He also almost panics, because Stiles is holding him _tight_ and Isaac is not fucking good with being held tight, with being held down at all, with being trapped in any way, shape, or form…

But he doesn’t feel trapped right now. Not really, not if he keeps thinking around it. He lets his arms close around Stiles’s shoulders. And then he starts to sway to the slow tune of Vivaldi’s 6th Cello Sonata (at least, that’s his guess—and by the sound it’s the third movement, but he could be wrong), not by any conscious choice, just his body whispering ‘hey, hey, there’s music, don’t you feel it in your veins and your bones and your blood and your skin, don’t you want to let it move you?’ and of course he does. Stiles picks up his rhythm and then pulls away minutely, a trembly half-smile on his face as they sway, just their torsos moving from side to side.

“Can’t believe you just said I had leet skills. I could almost hear the threes in your voice.”

Isaac laughs a little and kisses Stiles’s face, because Stiles has been laying random little kisses on him for far too long not to get some payback. He plants it right on Stiles’s expressive dark eyebrow and a delighted laugh bubbles up out of Stiles’s throat. Isaac can also count the kisses he’s _given_ on one hand, so he’s going to avoid thinking about that, too.

“That’s ‘cause there _were_ threes.”

Stiles laughs loud and bright again and Isaac smirks. Stiles’s eyes widen and he presses a hand to Isaac’s face again, traces the line of his bottom lip with a cool thumb, and Isaac shivers. “What’s that smile for?” Stiles’s eyes are half-lidded and Isaac’s heart’s thumping out of time, holy shit he’s beautiful. Stiles is so close Isaac can see his lips glisten after he trails along them with the tip of a pink tongue he desperately wants in his mouth.

“‘S for you. Now come on, Stiles. Show me what you got.” The line sounds completely ridiculous, which is maybe okay, because Isaac _feels_ completely ridiculous, and for a heavy thick moment Isaac is sure Stiles so going to show him something _else_ he has.

They exchange a dark, thick look, and then Stiles is tugging him out onto the dance floor by the waist a little clumsily, and Isaac isn’t good with being dragged around either but the look of semi-frantic joy on Stiles’s face is enough to make him just roll with it.

 

It takes them a while to find their rhythm. Stiles is nervous—so nervous Isaac can practically _smell_ it. Despite what Isaac said earlier, Stiles isn’t doing a whole hell of a lot of relaxing. Isaac is glad he wore his sturdiest pair of dress shoes, black loafers that don’t scuff or bend out of shape easy. Stiles steps on his toes maybe eight times all told, each time almost scrambling away from him in an effort to negate it, but Stiles’s steps are tentative as shit anyway and it doesn’t actually hurt.

Finally _finally_ the band gets a few late-night additions: three sax players, two trumpets, a bass guitar, and a drum kit. They go into a live and jazzy beat that’s designed to fucking _swing_ and Isaac can’t take it anymore. The music’s using his brain as a conduit, conducting electricity and _movement_ into his veins, and he takes Stiles’s arm and presses it firmly to his back, grabs his other hand, and looks Stiles in the eye. His voice is lower than he’d meant for it to be, nearly harsh, but if they don’t get really and truly moving soon Isaac’s afraid he’s going to explode. “ _Stiles_. Stop agonizing and just _dance_.”

Stiles goes completely stock-still and the look he gives Isaac is almost _hard_ , but his eyes say ‘I don’t know how’ and Isaac can immediately sympathize. His thirteen-year-old self had that problem, too. Stiles runs his tongue over his bottom lip quickly, a nervous gesture instead of an aroused one, and then gives a minute bob of the head that slowly grows into a full, if jerky, nod.

Then Stiles moves, lifting his arm and spinning him, and Isaac wasn’t expecting it and doesn’t fucking care because apparently his _body_ was. He actually goes up on his toe for a moment and his leg extends back behind him before coming down just before it would’ve hit Stiles, and Stiles takes his waist firmly again and starts out a trot that for some reason screams _West Side Story_ in Isaac’s head.

Stiles is counting under his breath, a steady ‘one two three four one two three four’ that Isaac knows from countless choreographers, and Isaac hesitates for a moment as his body falls into line with Stiles’s counting, but as Stiles moves to spin him again Isaac plants his feet and refuses.

In one of the earliest lessons he received at SPAU, he learned that if you didn’t trust your partner, you were fucked. The end. There was no way you could come together to create something. The instructor’d likened it to sex, but Isaac didn’t like that metaphor. That implied that one of the dancers could enjoy themselves while the other was doing just the opposite. Dancing doesn’t work like that. You don’t have to _like_ the other person, but you do have to _trust_ them.

Isaac likes Stiles very much, and he trusts Stiles, but Stiles isn’t trusting _himself_.

He presses himself close, swaying just barely. The chandelier dimmed at some point and the other dancers are doing their thing enthusiastically around them, but Isaac doesn’t really see them anymore. Doesn’t really see anyone but Stiles, blushing high in his cheeks, breath pumping a little, and still _still_ barely counting—

Isaac speaks against the shell of Stiles’s ear, letting his lips brush the soft edge, closing his eyes. “I need you to relax. You can do this—what’re you so afraid of?”

Stiles draws back, looking stricken, offended. “I _told you_ I wouldn’t be _good at this_ , what the fuck are you—”

Isaac is done. He knows it’s just nervous reaction, this little outburst, knows that Stiles is freaking out, but he just can’t do this. “Don’t do that, okay? _Don’t_ do that. That ‘acting like it’s my fault’ thing. Don’t do that.” He’s starting to back up, getting ready to leave, but he knows that even though he’ll be walking calmly it’s really running away. 

Stiles immediately deflates, and the way he covers his eyes with his hand is enough to still Isaac’s feet, always so ready to take off in a leap or a spin or even just a quick run. Stiles is blushing all over now, even the tips of his ears are red, and he extends his other hand to Isaac. Isaac can’t say what exactly makes him take it. “Sorry. But. I’m _not_ good at this, Isaac. I fucking _suck_ at this. Improvising thing. I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to blame you. Uh…so no leet skills after all.” Stiles takes his hand away from his face, and the sadness in his eyes plus the embarrassed shade of his skin pulls at Isaac even more.

“Hey.” Isaac wraps his arms around Stiles’s waist, and Stiles wraps his arms around Isaac’s shoulders, and then they _are_ swaying, just like middle school. And Isaac is leading, wonder of wonders. Stiles does the still more traditional thing and leans his head against Isaac’s shoulder, facing the dance floor, and Isaac leans the side of his face against Stiles’s hair. “I still think you have l33t skills. And I think you’re better than you think you are. Everyone can dance.”

Stiles huffs a little and it comes out bitter-sounding. “Yeah, what skills?” He maybe realizes how harsh that was and shakes his head without picking it up off Isaac’s shoulder. “If you really think that you didn’t go to that freshman welcome party our first year here. There are some theatre students who _really_ can’t dance.”

Isaac picks up their swaying a little and starts a slow sort of rotation that goes with the beat of the music and, even though this is music made to _move your goddamn body to_ , it still feels _good_ , still feels right. Stiles follows him easily, almost unconsciously, seems like.

“Do you want a list?” Isaac is smiling what he’s sure Vernon would describe as his ‘tall, pale stranger’ smile. Vernon also calls it his ‘mysterious shit-eating grin’. Isaac likes that one better. “And, you know, I _did_ go to that, and in _spite_ of that I still believe that everyone can dance. It might not look good to some people, but it’s…it’s expression. Dance is just a body plus motion plus _e_ motion. Everything we do is a piece of dancing, the actual act of it is just…putting it all together.” He plants his feet and picks Stiles up and brings him around to his other side in a flurry of graceful motion, and Stiles just glides with it, like they’ve done it a million times. “Everybody has the pieces, and everybody can fit them together. ‘S just a matter of what kind of picture it makes. It’s still dancing even if all you do is bob your head to the beat.”

Stiles sighs a little and looks up at his face, and for once Isaac doesn’t mind being tall, because he gets to stare down at Stiles—not by much, maybe only two or three inches—but by enough. Stiles’s eyes are wide and earnest and searching, and he seems laid bare behind them. “And you said you weren’t romantic. That description of dance…that was _poetry_ , Isaac. I might ask to use that at some point, holy shit. But um…yes. Yes, a list would be good.”

The band has tipped off into something that’s a little more rum-soaked, heavy against his limbs, so slow and steady it’s almost like he really is drunk for a moment. His pace drops to almost nothing and they’re swaying again, in an even rotation, and he’s holding Stiles gently around the waist with a relaxed little smile starting up on his face. “See, I can’t actually _give_ you a list, because that would be laying all my cards on the table, and that’d only be safe to do if _you_ gave _me_ a list. So. Suffice to say you have them, and they’re entrancing me. Besides, you couldn’t be a secret agent if you didn’t have certain…skills. Right? But uh…I don’t remember that. Those needles sting.”

For a second Stiles’s face is totally blank, and Isaac thinks he’s forgotten about their little game during dessert only little while ago, but then his eyes brighten. “Right. And I didn’t hear you say that because I really _really_ don’t wanna have to kill you. ‘Entrancing’, huh?” Stiles gives him a lecherous wink, and Isaac laughs and leans down, until _his_ head is on _Stiles’s_ shoulder.

“Mhm. ‘Entrancing’. And by the way, I just said I didn’t do candlelight. That thing up there is distinctly a chandelier, Stiles.”

 

Eventually a singer joins the ensemble, a woman with huge brown eyes, a huge puff of static-y blonde hair, and a voice that makes it possible to imagine that Etta James was reincarnated. She sings something by Aretha Franklin first, ‘Chain of Fools’, something Isaac’s only heard once or twice, and it doesn’t sound like Aretha, but it sounds _good_. She doesn’t have any back-up but she’s carrying it by herself pretty _fucking_ well. Stiles is grooving on it, grinning at him, and the whole floor’s entire mood changes. Everything goes sultry, sexy, heady, and everyone person out on that marble becomes ageless and full of bright and intense life, at least to Isaac’s eyes.

Isaac swings himself around, so his back is flush with Stiles’s front, and does a slow wiggle down and back up that he couldn’t’ve stopped if he’d wanted to. And no, he hadn’t want to. He turns and takes Stiles’s hand and then Stiles’s arm is wrapped around his lower back and they’re _going_.

It might not be a precise _style_ , but it sure is something. They’re almost totally flush, and there’s a little bit of a hip wriggle in every step they take. Stiles takes total control easily, whispering the lyrics under his breath, and Isaac smiles wide and falls into it, melts into Stiles, and takes note. Stiles needs to know the words to be in control.

There’s still a hint of stiffness to his movements, and Isaac thinks he can put together what’s happening here—Stiles is snapping together bits of choreography he knows together like pieces of a bunch of different puzzles to somehow make something whole and coherent, because if this is anything, it’s coherent. And it’s _intense_. At one point Stiles’s hand sneaks onto Isaac’s ass and Isaac is _glad_ , Isaac _wants_ it there, because this music demands it.

Isaac has no idea how many songs they go through with Stiles leading—time melts, the words melt together, until he’s just pure distilled feeling. That’s how it always is for him. He gets entirely, hopelessly lost in the music.

But right now he’s entirely, hopelessly lost in Stiles, and that’s pretty new. Through everything, Stiles stays clear, his eyes somehow twinkling out in the ever-dimming lighting.

The first indication that something is different comes from those eyes popping wide, and Stiles is suddenly exuberant, grinning huge and almost trembling against him, and they’re both still, letting the blonde singer’s voice ripple through them. It takes Isaac a moment to place words, to let things haze back together and piece syllabic sounds into an understandable language, but when he does get it he breaks out into a grin.

‘Something’s Got A Hold On Me’ is being belted beautifully, and Stiles seems like he’s swept away completely. He’s not looking at the _singer_ with admiration though, he’s looking at _Isaac_ , and there’s nothing but heat and excitement because then Stiles truly takes the lead and Isaac is allowed to become boiling water and writhing limbs and he’s so fucking far out of his head he doesn’t even realize he’s in the air until Stiles sets him back down, laughing and just…just fucking glowing, holy hell if Stiles isn’t the most beautiful person Isaac’s ever seen Isaac’ll wander over to some oldster and eat his fucking fedora.

The song rips and roils through him, making him actually make an involuntary noise while moving for the first time since he was nineteen years old. It’s a bright, intense burst of laughter that seems to come from not his stomach but his _chest_ , and for a few moments he imagines it echoed.

Something sure as hell has a hold on him, and he’s not gonna say it’s love, but he’s not gonna say it’s _not_ , either.

 

By the time they make it back to Eloise, it’s not Eloise anymore, it’s some thin balding man with one arm of his brown tweed suit pinned up. Isaac briefly wonders if he’s a vet, but he doesn’t stare at absence of a forearm and he doesn’t comment and he doesn’t look any longer than he has to. If _his_ damage was visible like that he wouldn’t want anyone to act like it was a big deal, so he tries to provide the same courtesy. People can’t see his all the time, so they don’t comment. He has no idea what it’d be like to have the pieces of him that’re missing out on display like that (maybe in the form of a t-shirt saying ‘no family, no real home, all that’s left are the scars from the childhood taken from me’ that he’d be forced to wear or something), and he sincerely hopes he never has to find out.

For a moment he wants to ask Maurice how he copes, with a piece missing out of him like that. He wouldn’t be trying to be cruel, really, he’s just curious how someone else is dealing, but the moment passes when he looks over at Stiles and Stiles smiles at him.

He and Stiles are both flushed and panting lightly, like good sex or great dancing always winds up pushing a body to do. The singer’d gone home and Stiles was pretty much just leaning against him and swaying, so Isaac figured he’d worn out his considerable supply of stamina. Now Stiles stands anxiously in front of…Maurice? Apparently his name’s Maurice? Isaac is feeling really out of his head still, and it doesn’t help that it’s now one in the morning.

“Maurice, I’m sorry but uh—there wasn’t a check on our table? When we—when we got back from dancing? We were kinda out there a long time, our waiter might’ve forgotten—” Stiles is a little wild-eyed and he shifts back and forth, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. Isaac wonders if that’s a thing he does exclusively when he’s nervous.

“Name, sir?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry, sorry, Stiles? Stiles Stilinski. Stilinski.” Looks like Isaac’s not the only one who’s out of it. He giggles a little and takes Stiles’s hand.

Stiles squeezes it gratefully and Maurice makes a considering ‘mmm’ noise as he thumbs through the light leather book on the choral-stand type thing that these people’re using as a host’s podium.

“Oh, here we are. Stilinski. Yes, sir, your meal and that of your companion was gratis. On the house. Was it satisfactory?”

Isaac’s eyebrows go up seemingly of their own accord and he shoots Stiles a confused look. What the fuck?

But Stiles looks just as thunderstruck as he does. “Holy shit. Um…cool…I guess? Uh, can you give this to…shit…uh…”

“Ethan.” Isaac only remembers because Stiles’d said it right after the guy had, with this considering look on his face. Isaac’d giggled, because it’d looked like Stiles was saying it like ‘oh, yes, Ethan, that is a name that exists’ and it’d just been _cute_.

Stiles smiles at him gratefully. “Ethan, yeah. Do you mind? And I mean, five for you, dude, I know that’s like _so generous_ , shit, but you didn’t laugh your ass off, so you deserve _something_.”

Maurice grins wide and full, showing a set of pearly whites too large and perfect to be anything but false. “Thank you sir. _Most_ generous. You and your companion have a lovely evening. Dr. Hale says ‘hello’.”

Stiles laughs then, and genuinely, it looks like. “Please tell him Stiles says ‘hello, yourself’ and that I’ll buy him a can of Alpo should the opportunity provide itself. And you have a lovely evening too, Maurice. Keep your head up.”

Stiles strides out like he owns the fucking place, dragging Isaac along, and for a moment Isaac wonders if he does. But Stiles would’ve mentioned that, probably. “Um…Stiles? What was that?”

Stiles shrugs at him but he’s still seriously primping right now. “Oh, that was just my Movement I teacher scoring us some _free food_. I mean, how cool was _that_?” Stiles actually does a little scuffling hop thing and clicks his heels together and Isaac laughs and shakes his head.

“You’re adorable.” He’s not thinking, and it just slips out. He’s worried for a second, but Stiles is just grinning.

“And you look cold as fuck. Want my jacket?”

Isaac starts to say ‘no’, because all that will accomplish is _Stiles_ being cold as fuck and it’s his own fault for reading out on the quad when it was sunny and being too distracted to go get a jacket once it got cold and then being embarrassed to get one out of his dorm once it was time to go, but Stiles’s eyes suddenly go vulnerable, bottom lip just barely in his mouth, and it almost seems like he’s begging for Isaac to say ‘yes’, so Isaac just smiles a slow and wide smile and says ‘yes, please’. They’re almost at the entrance of the parking garage behind the restaurant, and the glowing white streetlights illuminate the sidewalk, harshly picking out every pockmark in the concrete ahead.

Stiles lets out a tiny bark of laughter and pauses to tug his jacket off, and the moment Isaac sees Stiles’s bare upper arms, he feels like he’s thrown out of his body. A little gasp escapes him and a hand comes up to cover his mouth as Stiles drapes the coat over his shoulders.

 _He’s wearing a fucking t-shirt and he just gave me his jacket because he doesn’t want me to be cold_.

Isaac isn’t sure why this is such a revelation. Maybe because he’s used to being the person who makes all the sacrifices, who takes all the hits. Having someone looking out for his well-being, someone who has no obligation, no reason to care…

Well, you can guess how many hands he can count that occurrence on at this point.

Stiles shyly kisses his cheek and Isaac doesn’t really have any explanation for what he does next. His body is talking, his body is doing the moving for him, and he’s listening to his body and letting go. He’s not thinking.

But he _is_ thinking.

As he cups Stiles’s face in his hands, he thinks about how _good_ the warm skin feels, how soft the hair just behind Stiles’s ears is. When he leans forward, he’s thinking _god his eyelashes are so thick and dark_. When he presses his lips to Stiles’s, he’s thinking _yes yes I want this I want this so_ ** _bad_** _._

Stiles makes a startled aborted little noise and then Isaac is being kissed like he’s never been kissed before. Stiles is gentle and slow, and his tongue swipes across Isaac’s bottom lip, as if to beg entrance. Stiles’s arms are wrapping around his waist, underneath Stiles’s own coat, and Isaac opens his mouth and lets Stiles’s tongue in.

His eyes are barely open slits as he takes a deep, sharp inhale and moulds his body to Stiles’s. Stiles’s hands wander up his back and he feels Stiles’s fingers splay out against his tensed muscle and his hand wanders through Stiles’s hair almost lazily. Stiles whimpers into his mouth and Isaac doesn’t want to stop, wants to back Stiles up against the wall of the building and just _kiss_ him holy shit he seriously never wants this to quit—

Isaac’s eyes flicker shut and their pacing picks up, more of a ‘making out in the middle of the sidewalk greedily’ thing instead of just a kiss. Isaac loses himself again and later realizes it would’ve continued for way longer than it had if not for that wolf whistle. As it is, Isaac didn’t know if it’d been five minutes or six hours, only knew that his mouth was kiss-slick and he could still taste Stiles and french vanilla ice cream on his tongue. He’s the one who looks around—Stiles stays pressed firmly to him and just gazes at up him, dazed and admiring, like he’s just been whacked across the back of the head with a baseball bat but is really impressed with what a good blow it was.

It’s some old dude in a golf hat, and he tosses Isaac a lecherous wink and then takes the arm of what is (presumably) his boyfriend and waddles on in to the club. With his walker. What the fuck.

“Um, Stiles?”

Stiles doesn’t even actually speak, just makes this fluttery ‘hmm’ sound that’s half-sigh and all cute as hell.

“This…is not exactly a private place. Could we maybe—you know, go back to school?”

Isaac isn’t sure Stiles understands what he’s saying. He mutters ‘huh’ and looks around, seeming stunned to see that they’re under a street light and still an entire parking garage away from Stiles’s car. Then— “Oh. _Oh_. Scho—” He cuts himself off and looks up at Isaac sharply, fear in his eyes, and Isaac tries to figure out why Stiles looks so scared.

“Vernon’s out—probably will be all night. Some black and white film festival down on North, so you could come back to my room for a little while, if you want. If you _want_ , though, you don’t have to—honestly, I kinda just want to kiss you some more.” And holy fuck, Isaac is being really intensely forward, and he’s never just _made out_ with someone for longer than it took them to get hot enough for sex, but he’s telling the truth. He feels like…like he has time, like he and Stiles can _take_ their time. And also like maybe Stiles isn’t going anywhere and his interest isn’t going to fade immediately after he ‘gets what he wants’, as cliché as that shit is, but he’s not gonna think about that yet because they’re not _there_ yet.

At the word ‘kiss’ Stiles immediately relaxes against him again, and Isaac wonders what Stiles _thought_ he was asking him back to the room for. 

 

“What time do you have class in the morning?” Stiles’s voice is almost a whisper, quiet and tentative, and it sounds kind of weird to Isaac. Nervous. He really wishes he’d thought to invite Stiles inside Monday, just so they could get the whole ‘here is my space this is what it looks like’ thing out of the way.

He looks around his dorm room, trying to see it from a stranger’s perspective, to figure out what Stiles must be thinking and answers ‘8 AM’ distractedly. He drapes Stiles’s jacket over his desk chair and looks on said desk. Everything lined up. Long-necked silver lamp stretching over to the head of the bed, on now, but pointed to the ceiling so the light won’t be in their faces when/if they decide to lay down. Color-coded office supplies in neat stacks. Small, thin, silver Sony _Vaio_ laptop on desk, closed and not plugged in. Grey-blue curtains covering the small window just above said desk.

His eye-line drifts down, to the bookshelf under his bed, three-fourths moment theory books and old text books, a fourth plays/musicals, and a few Stephen King, George R. R. Martin, and Robert A. Heinlein books wedged between, just his favorites. His library card is always put to good use. A rag rug on his side of the room in black and gray. Bed made almost military-precise in light gray sheets, slightly darker gray comforter. Two thick pillows. Very little decoration. A single framed piece of artwork over his bed—a stylized and post-modern phoenix, rising from its own ashes. The depiction is devastating and terrifying and exhilarating, a truly violent portrayal of leaving behind what once was. It’s honest and harsh and almost cruel.

Isaac loves it.

The picture in the silver frame on Isaac’s desk, he loves that one, too, it’s the full moon, an HD picture in striking clarity, realistic in contrast to the phoenix, and it was taken on the night of the super moon like four or five years ago. There’s a single pine tree in the foreground as perspective. Stiles picks it up, doesn’t ask why he has a picture of the moon instead of his family, just looks over at Isaac with soft eyes. “I remember this. The photo actually does it justice.”

Isaac just barely smiles. “I think so, too. It was taken in Beacon Hills, actually. By Vernon.” He gestures toward the unmade bed across the room from his, decked in about three quilts in various states of disintegration, a huge white down comforter, six pillows, and orange sheets. Isaac has always and will always refer to Vernon’s bed as a nest.

Stiles nods a little, appreciably, Isaac thinks. “No kidding. He’s good. Is he still taking pictures?”

Isaac shrugs. “You’d know better than me—he’s the one who documents all the play processes. C’mere, I wanna show you something cool.” Isaac slides off his loafers and picks them up, opens his closet (located just at the foot of his bed), slides them into their designated shelf, and then flops down on his twin bed, scooting all the way up against the wall to give Stiles room. His picture’s only about a foot above his body, and he just stares at it for a moment.

Stiles coughs and puts the moon back down on Isaac’s desk (right where he found it, Isaac is pleased to note) and then sits on the edge of the bed and starts taking his shoes off. “So it’s _that_ Vernon, huh? He is like the quietest person on the planet, you know that? Sometimes I could swear that I know him from somewhere, it’s really weird, but yeah, he’s a pretty awesome photographer. And sound tech. And light tech. And scenery craftsman. Your roommate is cool, dude, and a god amongst techies. Like, holy shit.” Once Stiles peels off his other shoe he looks at Isaac, almost wincing, and then lays down rigid beside him. “Um…okay…’m here. What’s up?”

Isaac doesn’t point out that Stiles _does_ know Vernon, from Beacon Hills High, and probably ignored him. Vernon would fucking kill him if he so much as _whispered_ ‘Boyd’ without ‘Vernon’ in front of it in their safe place anyway. He’s slightly more concerned about the fact that Stiles would probably look more comfortable covered in bees even though Isaac has a pillow top so fluffy and awesome that the piss-proof dorm mattress isn’t even an issue anymore. “Stiles. Close your eyes, and then open them. What do you see?”

Stiles looks at him curiously for a moment and then does as he asks. Stiles takes an audible breath, lets it out slow, and visibly relaxes a little. Then he opens his eyes, and cracks a huge smile after about a solid thirty seconds of contemplation. “I was _wondering_ why your sheets were gray. It looks like I’m laying in the ashes, watching the phoenix rise. You’re totally a romantic, Isaac, you have the soul of a poet, you know that? I’m being completely legitimate here, it’s not funny, why are you laughing?”

Isaac is laughing because he’s maintained a C-average _barely_ in any kind of composition class for the entirety of his school career. He kisses Stiles’s cheek and lets himself move a little closer, the line of his body barely _barely_ melting with Stiles’s. “It _is_ funny, Stiles. I’m no poet. I’m a dancer, that’s what I am and that’s who I am, and if I have a soul, and souls have types, then…well…yeah. If there’s any poetry in me, it’s in my limbs, not my _words_. But I don’t even think it’s in there, you know? I’m just…a conduit. For whatever energy I can draw out and express, for whatever I can draw _in_ to myself without running over. And you’re looking at me funny. Why are you looking at me like that?” Isaac asks the question playfully, but the gaze shooting out at him isn’t ‘funny’, it’s a combination of triumphant and _hot_ and it doesn’t really make any sense.

More of the stiffness is melting off Stiles’s body, and he turns to face Isaac more fully. He places a hand to Isaac’s face and cups it like it’s something precious and Isaac watches him look back and forth between his eyes. “You’re a poet of the body, Isaac. You’re…you’re _incredible_ …” The last bit is said distractedly, like it’s just a _fact_ that doesn’t really need stating. Isaac is surprised, but also turned on and grateful because Stiles put his thoughts into words exactly the way he couldn’t. Stiles’s hand slips to his chin and then pulls Isaac forward, and their lips brush, barely.

It’s a spark.

Stiles goes slow, his hand eventually trailing from Isaac’s chin to his neck to his back to his hip. He’s patient and easy and in absolutely no rush, tongue unfolding almost lazily into Isaac’s mouth, seeming to taste and savor. It’s nearly three AM at this point, and Isaac is finding the world more hazy and soupy every moment, but what Stiles is doing, or _not_ doing, stands out in harsh relief. Stiles isn’t pressuring him or trying to get on with it. Stiles is content to kiss him.

Stiles is maybe the only person ever that this has been the case with, and it feeds the spark until Isaac is a thrumming fire under Stiles’s fingers, responding with shivering intensity to all of his ministrations. If Stiles wanted him, Isaac would let himself be taken in an instant. He wouldn’t even have to think about it, and he wouldn’t play coy for once. He’d beg for it.

But Stiles’s hands don’t wander under his clothes, one arm just finds its way under his body and curls loosely around his waist. He tosses a leg over Stiles, not thinking of friction, just thinking _closer_ , and closer he gets. They’re completely wrapped around each other, and Stiles slows down more and more, until they’re barely pressing lips to lips, and during a long pause between these tiny fluttering kisses Isaac falls asleep.

 

He comes awake at six AM on the dot, slightly disoriented and confused because he’s normally not _beside someone_ when he wakes up. And he usually doesn’t feel this fucking _exhausted_ , holy hell. He can’t remember drinking at all last night, all the remembers is dancing for way longer than he ought to’ve, and his eyes crack slowly open and take in the dark hair directly in front of his face and _oh_. Okay. Yeah, he remembers the rest.

His mouth is a little kiss-swollen, not painfully, just enough to remind him exactly what he was doing last night. He takes inventory. Legs okay. One of them over one of Stiles’s legs and wedged between them, but okay. Back feels good. Arms feel good, though the one under Stiles’s head is asleep. Neck feels good. Nothing hurts, but for the dull throb in his hip still. His mouth feels full of sand and death, but that’s usual for mornings.

He figures Stiles must’ve fallen asleep at about the same time he did, and here they are now. No big deal, right?

Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong. Though Isaac has fucked (or been fucked by, depending on how you look at it) quite a few people, he’s never _slept_ with any of them. So this is kind of a huge deal.

But he’s comfortable, and he’s warm, and he considers sleeping for another hour, something he hasn’t done since that time in ‘08 unless he’s sick or too hungover to even function (which is insanely rare now, thank god). But he doesn’t know when Stiles has class.

He kisses the back of Stiles’s neck gently and Stiles lets out a little moan in his sleep and leans farther into Isaac, and Isaac’s morning wood bumps him _of fucking course_ , but Stiles doesn’t jump or jerk or move away, just rocks back and makes _Isaac_ moan, and while this is a good way to start the morning, Stiles isn’t exactly coherent and Isaac doesn’t think it’s fair. He puts his hand on Stiles’s hip to still it and whispers “Hey. Good morning, Stiles. When do you have class?”

Stiles lets out a little whining noise and then yawns and seems to _drip_ back against him, twisting a hand back to curl into Isaac’s hair. “ _Mmm_ , not ‘til 10…’saac?”

For a brief second Isaac freaks out, because that shit sounded like _Zack_ , not like _I_ saac, and though the two are admittedly similar, _they are not the same fucking thing_. But Stiles might have sleep mush-mouth. He garbles something about coffee that’s totally incomprehensible and Isaac decides that yes, Stiles does have mush-mouth. Definitely.

He slides out from behind Stiles and over him, slips the bunched covers out from under Stiles’s body with difficulty, and covers him up. He picks up Stiles’s shoes and carefully sets them by the foot of his bed, lined up, heels on the outside. He has some weird habits.

Vernon is a bright lump of blankets and pillows. Isaac’s curtains block the light on his side of the room, but Vernon’s not bothered by light at all, so he’s just in the yellow-orange of the campus lights for the next hour or so, until the sunlight comes blazing in and they shut themselves off. Isaac thinks first how lucky Vernon is, that he doesn’t have class until three, and then how lucky _he_ is, because Vernon was apparently so exhausted last night that he just turned out Isaac’s light for him and passed out. And he knows Vernon won’t give him shit for having someone over. Vernon’s good like that. It’s never exactly happened before—Isaac got all his frivolous college sexing out of the way during freshman and sophomore years. His libido has chilled out distinctly.

He goes to his closet, pulls out his combat boots and a huge, thick black hoodie he only ever wears in the cold end of the morning, and in the dorm room at that, and then looks over the contents of his duffle. His dance clothes and shoes, deodorant, shower gel, text books, single large blue notebook—he’s all packed up. He’d forgotten he did that before he left the room yesterday. And speaking of forgetting—he pulls his paperback out of his back pocket, and it looks a little more curved but really no worse for wear. He drops it in, zips up his duffle, and sits on the end of the bed to put his shoes on. He’ll change after he gets them some breakfast.

Stiles wakes up and murmurs something entirely unintelligible, and Isaac looks over at him in the dimness and smiles. Stiles blinks a few times, makes kind of a ‘hhmph’ noise, and then scoots over into the warm spot left by Isaac’s body, unfolds all his limbs, and promptly goes back to sleep with his mouth open.

Isaac hopes this happens more often. It’s entertaining as shit. He scrawls ‘went for coffee, be right back’ on a bright blue sticky note and, after a long moment of consideration, sticks it to the side of Stiles’s face.

Stiles doesn’t even twitch.


	4. The Song Was Exciting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isaac makes a request, and Stiles complies, and then Stiles asks for a thing that would be big _anyway_ but is kind of a ridiculously huge deal to Isaac and Stiles doesn't know that it's a huge deal so he's agonizing because he's like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So from here on out there will be a youtube link to songs sung whenever the person says the title of the song! Feel free to click or not click, and thank you very much for reading this far!
> 
> And this is for Becky, my fangirl crush and officially one of my favorite people, someone who I am full of admiration and respect for! I am grateful to you and for you for existing! You're freakin' awesome, you know that?

Stiles gnaws on the inside of his cheek, trying to figure out how to ask this. The Question. They’ve only been ‘dating’ since the 7th, and they didn’t go on their _actual_ date until the 13 th, and he usually fucks everything up by being too forward and moving to fast—not with the sex stuff, god no, but with _everything else_ , the family stuff, the deepest darkest confessions stuff, the shit-you’re-only-supposed-to-say-to-people-you’re-in-love-with stuff—and he doesn’t know if it’s a form of self-sabatage or what, but it seriously _always_ happens and he doesn’t know if it’s about to happen now.

It is November 17th, and they weren’t technically scheduled to hang out or anything, but Isaac had asked casually yesterday during his still-traditional coffee run—two days after Stiles’d woken up with a blue sticky note on his face, the smell of deliciously sweet coffee in his nose, and _in Isaac’s fucking bed_ , more exhausted and happy that he’d been in _ages_ —if Stiles wanted to help with his audition piece today, tomorrow then. In his room. And Stiles hadn’t spilled about a fourth of Isaac’s white mocha cappuccino in surprise and covered his brainless move with whipped cream. Nope, that had not happened.

So here he is, in front of Isaac’s door at four in the afternoon, not knocking yet, just agonizing. They’re both done with class for the day, and he has _hours_ to work up to it. He has no idea why he’s freaking out so hard. He re-adjusts his backpack strap on his shoulder and lifts his hand to knock—

And then the door swings inward to reveal a very massive man in very black clothes that Stiles, and most of the Theater Department, really, is very familiar with. “Vernon! Hey, dude! You don’t have to leave on my account—”

Vernon eyes him up and down and Stiles takes a mental inventory—blue converse, blue jeans, black t-shirt with V’s face plastered across, comfy black wool coat, no neo-Nazi face tattoo—so why the hell is Vernon looking at him like he’s total fucking scum? It’s only there for a flash and then Vernon’s face is set in his familiar ‘toil is a fact of life’ no-bullshit expression. “Not at all, Stilinski. Headed off to Advanced Stagecraft. You two have fun now.” Vernon gives him another stormy look that seems to add “or I’ll fucking kill you” to the end of that sentence and then he moves silently past and down the hall.

Holy fucking shit is that guy light on his feet.

Stiles steps forward and occupies the space Vernon was in only a few moments before, now actually able to _see_ the place now. He shakes off the bare smidgen of irritation that encounter’d given him and smiles a little when he sees Isaac cross-legged on the bed, in pajamas already, with a book that doesn’t look small enough to be _The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress_ on his lap. He might not’ve even heard Vernon leaving.

Stiles knocks on the door a couple times and Isaac stands gracefully with his eyes still glued to the book as he settles it on the bed, lips moving. Then he looks up and registers that Stiles is standing in the doorway, and a small smile forms on his lips.

He is beautiful. His hair is perfect and just barely tousled, he’s wearing a soft-looking pair of blue plaid flannel pajamas that are just a _touch_ too big for him, and the top button is buttoned but skin is still revealed _way_ below collarbone, soft-looking and pale…

Stiles totally blanks for a second. He doesn’t even remember his own name, and he feels nervous and incomparably small in front of this man, so he winds up hunching a little. He’s uncomfortable as shit all the sudden. Like goddamn, he just wants to hide under the bed the same way he’d wanted to the other night.

He’s no small catch, he’s at least a mid-level fish, and he’s normally very comfortable in his own skin and very assured of his own awesomeness, but Isaac…Isaac kind of fucks that up for him. He’s too hot. Stiles can’t help but compare, and since he’s _Stiles_ , he’s not only comparing himself to Isaac’s level, he’s comparing himself to what Isaac must be _used to_. Other fish way higher in the food chain. Way bigger. Way more sparkly.

Way better than Stiles.

When he gets to the point where he’s not really making sense in his own head, it usually signifies he’s about to fuck up.

Isaac plucks at his pajama top and rubs the back of his neck, like _he’s_ feeling insecure, and that helps a little. “Sorry, uh—long day, didn’t think about it, just showered and changed like normal—did Vernon let you in?”

Stiles smiles and shuts the door with his heel, backing up with his foot against the edge of it until he hears a click, and then he crosses and drops his backpack down by the foot of the bed. He shrugs his coat off and hangs it off a bedpost. “I showed up just as he was leaving for class. I wouldn’t say ‘let me in’ so much as ‘left the door open behind him so I could enter’. You okay?” He hovers sort of awkwardly between sitting down and hugging Isaac, unsure what to do with his hands now that he doesn’t have a backpack strap to squeeze at.

Theatre people hug when they say ‘hello’, when they see you after class, when you get back from going to the bathroom; most theatre people are basically just touchy. He’d known Isaac for eight months before this (sort of), he’d seen him every day, and he hadn’t hugged him _then_. But they weren’t dating then, right? And there had been kind of a marble counter between them. Maybe he shouldn’t’ve come over. Maybe he should’ve let this rest a little while, hung out with Isaac when he wasn’t feeling quite so—

All thought is cut off when Isaac kisses him. _Again_. It’s slow and sweet and almost immediately deepened, and Stiles kisses back and puts his hands in Isaac’s hair, just barely damp, and Isaac whines into his mouth—

And then it’s gone. Apparently they _kiss_ to say ‘hello’. Or at least Isaac does. Stiles can live with that. He’s embarrassingly red and a little weak-kneed but holy fuck is Isaac good at that. He abruptly realizes his hands are still in Isaac’s hair and pulls them back, but then his brain registers that Isaac’s hands are on his lower back so maybe he should’ve moved? He looks into Isaac’s face, worried he’s gonna be mad or freaked out, but _he’s_ blushing too, and looking down. “Um…was that—was that okay? I…I kinda sprung it on you…”

Instead of responding with a simple ‘holy shit yes you’ve gotta be kidding me,’ Stiles tips Isaac’s head up with a finger curled under his chin, and then lightly kisses his lips. “A lot better than okay.”

Isaac smiles and then tugs him onto the bed, and then they get situated, both sitting almost primly with their feet still firmly on the floor. Isaac takes his hands away and Stiles thinks ‘okay, that’s that,’ but then Isaac laces their fingers together and Stiles jumps in surprise.

“Well, _I_ ’ _m_ better now that you’re here, but you’re kinda jumpy. Are _you_ okay?”

The look Isaac is giving him is so gentle, so affectionate, that Stiles can almost forget that they haven’t even been dating for two weeks. They fucking _fit_ and it’s nice, but also hard to believe, and he’s still painfully aware of how huge a jump this would seem. The Question gets damned behind his lips and he shrugs. “Eh, ‘m fine. Freakin’ out about auditions, as usual. What song are you going with?”

Isaac’s face shows clear confusion for a second before he shakes his head, as if to clear it. “You…get nervous? Really? Um…you’re kind of…wow, okay, I wasn’t expecting that. Uh, I’m doing something from _Newsies_. I know it sounds like…completely out of nowhere, but there are a lot of good parallels to be drawn between _Les Misérables_ and _Newsies_ , and if I’m gonna be Enjorlas, well, I gotta do something somewhat inspiring. What about you?”

Now it’s Stiles’s turn to look confused. “Uh, yeah, that _does_ sound completely out of nowhere. What—what do you mean, you weren’t expecting me to get nervous?” He licks his lips and eyes Isaac incredulously. What is he trying to say here? Stiles’s first thought is that Isaac thinks he’s confident enough to just… _not_ , and Stiles tries to pull that off, but he’s pretty sure he fails most of the time. Too excitable. “Oh—oh, I was gonna do something from _Spring Awakening_ maybe…or _Into the Woods_ , I’m not sure. ‘S a coin toss, really. They’re both prepared.”

Isaac shrugs a little, but seems impressed. “I dunno, you usually seem pretty confident. I guess that’s why you’re an _actor_ , huh?” Isaac nudges his shoulder a little and Stiles blushes again. So that _had been_ what he though. “We’ll see if you think it doesn’t work when you hear it, m’kay? Let me know if I’m pitchy or my face is wooden or anything. And it’s okay if you think I’m shit, Stiles, you don’t get as good at dance as I am without learning to take criticism. It’s uh…it’s ["Seize The Day."](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wr0nr5PH1mA)”

Isaac stands up, backs up almost all the way across the room to Vernon’s bed (and into the beam of light coming from Vernon’s window, the golden afternoon sun is the only light in the room), and faces Stiles, bare feet planted and spread apart on the polished hardwood. First Stiles wonders why _Vernon_ doesn’t have a rug like Isaac, and then Stiles examines the red, callused things poking out from the bottoms of Isaac’s loose pajama pants and a wave of sudden triumph and then utter guilt crashes through him without warning—triumph because one part of Isaac is ugly as hell, guilt because he even _cares_. Besides, they’re just feet, it’s not like it really changes anything. Isaac is still too fucking pretty for Stiles’s own good.

Stiles watches Isaac inhale and realizes that holy shit this is happening now, okay. He scoots back a little and clasps his hands in his lap and leans forward, because holy _fuck_ he’s interested. He wants to catch every little nuance, every lilt in his voice, every twitch of his face, even though he kind of doesn’t expect Isaac to _perform_ it for him.

Isaac’s eyes close, and Stiles’s lips part, because his lashes are so long and he looks so deliciously kissable like that, and a weird thought pops up in his head—Isaac already has the part. Unless he opens his mouth and it sounds like a horse or a hyena or some other similar animal thing is getting killed, he has the part.

Isaac’s hands fist and his entire posture changes—he becomes upright, staunch, his chin goes up, he lifts himself up almost on his toes and then drops back down and Stiles realizes that Isaac is, in fact, going to perform it for him. He opens his eyes and inhales and it’s not Isaac anymore—nor is it any single character from _Newsies_.

It’s Enjorlas. Stiles isn’t sure how this can be, in that Enjorlas is a fictional character, but it _is_. A jiggering silver bolt shoots up his spine and back down, and he gets goosebumps but remains very, very still.

Then Isaac opens his mouth and fucking goes for it and Stiles’s eyes swell in his head. Yeah, that doesn’t sound human.

That sounds fucking _angelic_. Isaac’s voice is beautiful but _compelling_ , tonally pure, and he’s not afraid to put feeling into it, to _mean_ what he’s singing.

“ _Now is the time to seize the day,_

 _Stare down the odds and seize the day—_ ”

Isaac’s gaze intensifies, pinning Stiles to the bed, focusing at once on his face exactly and nowhere near it. Isaac’s head slowly moves from one corner of the room, near the door, to the corner by his desk, and Stiles marvels. It doesn’t look practiced. It looks improvised. He doesn’t really need to see anymore. His random thought was correct. Isaac has it.

“ _Minute by minute,_

_That’s how you win it;_

_We will find a way._

_But let us seize the day._

_Courage cannot erase our fear._

_Courage is when we face our fear._

_Tell those with power_

_Safe in their tower_

_We will not obey._

_Behold the brave battalion_

_That stands side by side,_

_Too few in number,_

_And too proud to hide._ ” 

Isaac’s eyes are actually glistening now, he seems at once brave, heroic, and terribly sad, and Stiles tears up right with him and forgets he’s looking at his very new boyfriend, forgets he’s sitting on a weirdly comfortable dorm bed (forgets that he’s supposed to ask Isaac what the hell he did to it so that it doesn’t feel like he’s sitting on a rock), forgets that Isaac is in pajamas and bare feet, and forgets that he’s supposed to be doing anything but let this take his breath away.

_“And say to the others_

_Who did not follow through:_

_You’re still our brothers, and we will fight for you._

_Now is the time to seize the day_

_Stare down the odds and seize the day._

_Once we’ve begun,_

_If we stand as one,_

_Some day becomes somehow_

_And the prayer becomes a vow_

_And the strike starts right damn_ **_now_ ** _.”_

The last four lines are full of such power and intensity that Stiles can’t even really think. The wild, willful, and almost _angry_ ‘now’ echos around the room for a minute, and he’s not surprised that no one thumps on the walls, ceiling, or floor to get the occupants of this room to shut up. This is a _performance art_ university, if you don’t hear a fuck-ton of noise from your neighbors you start thinking they’re either sick, hung over to hell and back, or dead. Or, you know, mimes. That was the perfect place to stop, the perfect excerpt, and all the air leaves his lungs in a little punctured whoosh. Stiles looks back down at Isaac’s ugly, ugly feet, and tries to process.

“Hey, hey, are you okay?” Stiles looks back up and Isaac’s posture is totally different, his legs are locked together and he’s twisting his fingers around each other in a perfect picture of nervousness. He’s not Enjorlas anymore. But he was. Holy fuck, he _was_.

Stiles closes his mouth (who knew how long it’d been hanging open) and swipes at his face, and yep, the spontaneous tears usually only surprised out of him during Disney movies and particularly compelling performances are streaming down his face. He sniffles and puts his hands to his eyes, palms pressing flat against them, and nods. “You don’t have to worry about getting that part, dude. It’s yours. Holy fuck, it’s yours. If you don’t get it I’ll kick Derek’s ass myself. You’re fucking _incredible_. Holy fuck. I’m sorry, that was just…wow. That was awesome.”

The bed creaks and he looks over. Isaac’s sitting next to him, one hand extended, like he was about to put it on Stiles’s shoulder before he looked. His bottom lip is in his mouth and his blue eyes aren’t full of certainty—just very mild confusion. Like a wallop to the chest, he feels desire, so intense that for a moment he can’t even breathe. He moves forward, his awe still wet on his cheeks, and takes Isaac’s face in his hands.

“Isaac. You’re _incredible_.” Isaac still looks unsure, like he’s not really _hearing_ Stiles. “God, you don’t even know, do you? How good you are? You can admit you’re good at dance, you are, you’re great, that’s awesome, that’s hot as fuck, but Isaac, you’re fucking _amazing_ at this. Amazing. You’re _incredible_.”

Then it clicks behind those dark blue eyes and Stiles could swear he hears an actual noise. Instead of the smug smirk he expects to appear, Isaac looks down shyly and blushes. “Thanks. I…I mean it. Thank you. For…for coming over, and listening. I—I’m glad it didn’t suck.”

Yeah, okay, Isaac being radiantly brilliant and then spectacularly humble is not at all something Stiles can handle. He slips forward, more gracefully than he would’ve believed possible, and captures Isaac’s lips with his own, slowly but _purposefully_. Isaac’s mouth answering his movements is delicate and almost solemn. He presses Isaac back by the shoulders and he goes, hands locked in Stiles’s hair. Stiles’s heart is rushing and racing and all he can really hear is his own mortality thumping in his ears but that’s okay, because Isaac hooks his legs around Stiles’s hips and the question of straddle or press against is answered and he scoots forward until his crotch is against Isaac’s ass and Isaac lets a fluttery and completely unexpected little moan float out of his mouth into Stiles’s.

So Stiles is turned on by talent and further turned on by modesty, whatever.

That moan lights Stiles up all over, and he presses firmly against Isaac’s ass but doesn’t _thrust_ and slips his hands down from Isaac’s shoulders to his hips, because the last thing he wants is for it to seem like Isaac can’t get up if he wants to. Stiles is all for make-outs, all for kisses, and all for stuff like that after it’s been _discussed_ , but he’s not really willing to hold anybody down before that discussion has occurred.

The way Isaac whines quietly and wraps his arms around Stiles’s torso, responding with renewed vigor and enthusiasm, is enough to convince Stiles that he did the right thing. He likes it when Isaac makes noise against him. He wants to make him do it more.

He pulls up from Isaac’s mouth to smile at him and Isaac smiles back, looking for all the world like they’ve already had sex—his eyes are half-lidded and his pupils are fucking _blown_ and Stiles decides that that look is probably his favorite thing in the whole world. He knows that the color is high in his own cheeks, that his eyes are heavy but _bright_ and trying to take in everything at once, knows that he probably looks stupid beyond all reason to this gorgeous creature laid out underneath him, but none of that matters.

Getting Isaac to make some more noise, _that’s_ the important thing here.

He kisses across Isaac’s cheek lightly and no, they haven’t talked about this yet—that was another thing that was always getting him in trouble during the false-start relationships he’d been a party to over the last four or so years. ‘Why do you always have to fucking ask, Stiles?’ and ‘Goddamn Stiles can’t you do anything without my express permission?’ and ‘Jesus fucking Christ Stiles why do you always have to talk about everything why can’t you just fucking _do it_?’but he just—he could never risk doing something that the other person would regret later, or that might scare them. Thus he hasn’t been in any relationship that lasted longer than two months in his whole life.

He always wants everything to be easy, but it never is. They always ask why he’s asking questions. Why he can’t just ‘be a man and go for it’. And that’s when things start to go sour.

But he can’t not ask.

He gets to Isaac’s jaw, stops, and tilts his head up again to look Isaac in the face. Isaac’s eyes are closed now, and his face is almost _wincing_ , which to be honest scares the shit out of Stiles. He’d been absolutely _sure_ the face was okay already, he’d never had to ask about _that_ — “Isaac?”

Isaac lifts one eyelid, then the other, looking at him curiously. “Stiles?” He’s just barely breathless and _oh_ Stiles doesn’t wanna fuck this up but—

“Can I kiss your neck? ‘S okay if you don’t want me to…” Stiles trails off uncertainly at the look Isaac gives him…a look that’s a hell of a lot nicer than the ‘are you fucking kidding me’ that is the normal response to this.

Isaac looks amazed, Isaac looks ‘enraptured’, Isaac looks distinctly arrroused, and, perhaps most perplexing, way way far back in Isaac’s eyes Stiles can see what he’s pretty sure is _gratitude_. Only thing that makes life difficult about reading people—when you see shit you don’t expect, you get thrown off your game pretty hard.

“ _Stiles_ …” It’s whispered, so quiet it might not’ve even left Isaac’s lips, but Stiles hears it. Hears it and shivers.

Then Isaac is giving him a wet, sweltering, smoldering kiss that makes his heart bang against his chest even harder, hearing, way far back in his head ‘ _wow wow what a mouth what a mouth this boy has on him and what a goddamn tongue_ ’ in the frantic and exalted tones of a gospel preacher. Stiles thinks could worship this, he really, really thinks he could. He’s already thinking about writing a play about a boy with a magic mouth. It’s not a bad idea. Better than that fucking werewolf thing he’d been trying to get onto paper since sophomore year of high school.

Isaac undulates his tongue back into his own mouth and smiles brilliantly, bright and amazed and jesus fucking _christ_ he’s so beautiful Stiles can barely look at him. “ _Yes_ , Stiles. Please. If—if _you_ want to.”

And oh, he has manners too, he can ask nicely. Stiles rewards people who can ask nicely. _And_ he made sure that Stiles wasn’t doing it just ‘cause he thought Isaac wanted him to. Isaac gets points for that. All the points, every point.

Game on.

Stiles grins at Isaac and kisses his nose, and it crinkles up and Stiles is rewarded with a tiny giggle. Then Stiles kisses down Isaac’s cheek, opens his mouth, just barely licks along Isaac’s sharp jaw for a second.

The tiny gasp makes him shiver, and he looks up at Isaac again, but he’s not wincing this time. His eyes are closed, yeah, but he looks completely relaxed, and the corners of his mouth are turned up. Then Isaac opens his eyes the barest slip and tilts his chin up, exposing every inch of that _ridiculously long_ neck and all of the air leaves Stiles in a single hitching sigh that could be a moan, maybe, with a little more prompting.

Stiles takes his hands away from Isaac’s hips and settles his forearms like brackets on either side of Isaac, not quite touching him, so he can lean on them and keep holding himself up. He trails feather-light kisses along Isaac’s neck, just barely touching the skin, and he can feel Isaac straining _up_ , trying to get more contact with his mouth, and Isaac is very lightly panting and Stiles _adores_ it.

He opens his mouth and presses a much wetter kiss to Isaac’s neck, still slow but with circularly swirling tongue and Isaac goes very still for a moment before his hands clutch at Stiles’s shoulders and his long legs flex against Stiles’s hips and he lets out a sweet-sounding whimper that has Stiles fisting his hands in Isaac’s sheets so he doesn’t rock forward into Isaac’s ass. That’s another thing they haven’t talked about.

Isaac is panting very very quietly, and when Stiles starts to gently suck on a little patch of skin just under his jaw, Isaac whispers “ _Stiles_ …”

Stiles’s head comes up, heart fluttering in his chest, and he kisses Isaac again, because if he doesn’t he’ll say something stupid. Something like ‘what?’ because he’s pretty fucking sure that was just Isaac saying his name, not Isaac about to request something or asking him to look up. Then Isaac squeezes his legs around Stiles minutely and bumps his ass up and Stiles makes a very embarrassing and _loud_ noise into his mouth that’s caught somewhere between a moan and the sound you make when you’ve been punched and he rocks forward, chasing the sensation mindlessly for a moment, groaning when he gets it.

Then he realizes what he just did and he pulls his mouth off Isaac’s, eyes popped wild, tasting fear in his mouth along with a sweet, fresh taste that he’s guessing is lingering toothpaste. “Uh—I-Isaac? Is this—are you okay? Is this okay with you?”

Isaac actually _laughs_ and for a second Stiles doesn’t hear it as a release of happiness, just hears it as _mocking_ and his stomach drops. He opens his mouth to—he doesn’t even know, he’ll probably wind up getting defensive and starting a fight or something—but then Isaac is regarding him quietly, eyes large and a small smile playing on his lips. “Mhm. I’m okay if you are. T-thank you, Stiles. For asking me.”

“I really fucking like you, you know that?” The words are biting and _aggressive_ and Isaac laughs again and _okay_ yes that is just overflow laughter that’s not ‘you’re fucking ridiculous’ laughter, Stiles knows the difference by now. He dives back down onto Isaac’s mouth and takes out how intriguing and how _interesting_ and fucking awesome beyond reason he finds this situation on those beautiful slick lips, and then his hips jerk forward and he doesn’t worry about it because he asked and it’s not like it’s a _hard_ thrust and the little moan that’s moaned into his mouth means he’s fucking set. He brings a hand up and cups Isaac’s face while the other one snakes its way under his back, and Stiles quickly finds a slow, easy rhythm that he doesn’t _let_ build, because this is good enough for now. He doesn’t want to push it.

Stiles will always pretend like every relationship he has is going to last a million years even if he’s pretty sure it’s gonna end in five minutes. He’ll forever claim optimism, but he knows it’s really because it’s the closest thing he can do to ignoring the problem.

For a really long time, he thought the problem was _him_. But maybe…

Maybe he’d just been with the wrong person this whole time?

These are honestly not thoughts he should be having while he’s slowly but steadily setting himself on fire with his boyfriend’s mouth and his own rocking motion, now being vaguely echoed by Isaac’s hips. _He’s_ now moaning steadily into Isaac’s mouth, mostly because he can’t help it but also because Isaac whimpers, just a little, on the end of every noise he makes, and he thinks it’s hot beyond reason. Stiles isn’t chasing release, isn’t looking for completion.

He’s willing to ride out the middle for however long he can take it.

He finally kisses down Isaac’s face again, to the dip where his shoulder and neck connect, and presses another open kiss to it, just barely nipping with his teeth, and Isaac sighs in this broken, needy way and then pulls at Stiles’s shoulders, whining a little. Stiles wonders why he’s so fucking _quiet_ while he pulls up to look at Isaac, and when he does his cock twitches in his pants.

Isaac’s mouth is saliva-slick and kiss-red and his eyes are _blaring_ out at Stiles in the lighting that’s dimming from gold to orange now, and they’re the wrong color in it, a deep green instead of that blue Stiles is starting to adore, but  broadcasting exclusively positivity and _desire_. Stiles is good with this. Stiles likes being looked at like this.

“Holy fuck you’re beautiful.” He couldn’t’ve stopped the statement from whispering out of his mouth if he’d tried, and he totally hadn’t.

Isaac’s color’s already high, but it deepens a little, and Isaac smiles this wicked little grin that makes Stiles’s heart jerk in his chest. “Mm, I’m not the only one. Stiles—Stiles, can _I_ kiss _your_ neck?” It sounds a little teasing, but mostly just naive and _sweet_ , and Stiles is momentarily stunned. He nods almost imperceptibly, and laughter bubbles out of Isaac’s throat again, sounding merry but still undeniably sexy and not mean, not even a little. “Would you mind turning us over, please?”

Stiles smiles and says “Not at all,” before bending down and capturing Isaac’s lips again, then rolling. He rolls over Isaac’s long-ass leg but he does it quickly and gently and he’s pretty sure it doesn’t hurt Isaac, and then Isaac’s on top of him and he doesn’t have the chance to agonize.

For a minute it’s just kissing, but Stiles’s brain apparently isn’t functioning at all with Isaac all over him, and his hand slips down Isaac’s back and cups the ample and _strong_ curve of Isaac’s ass. His eyes fly open once he realizes he’s done _that_ and he pulls away a little and moves his hands, both of them, palms out and facing up at Isaac. He’s embarrassingly breathless. “Fuck, I’m sorry—”

Isaac doesn’t glare at him impatiently, but he does reach out and lace his fingers in Stiles’s on his right hand, and replaces his left where it was, firmly cupped around Isaac’s ass. Isaac’s eyelids flutter and he lets out the tiniest sound of pleasure. “Nuh-uh, don’t be, ‘s okay, I like that you ask but you did that already, that’s fine—” and then Isaac’s mouth is back on Stiles’s and Stiles is stunned as hell but also turned on beyond all reason and considering that Isaac is currently sitting on his dick, he’s pretty sure Isaac knows.

When did he do that exactly? It takes him a second to locate that particular memory, what with Isaac whining into his mouth and giving him a fresh new one, but then it clicks—when they were dancing, he totally grabbed Isaac’s ass, on total accident, and since Isaac just leaned into him more, he figured no harm no foul and left it there.

He wonders what _else_ he’s accidentally done. And he wonders, for a brief second, if Isaac would even _say anything_ if he was uncomfortable. But no, Stiles can’t do that. He can’t agonize over whether or not Isaac would let him know. He has to _trust_ him. If this is gonna work, Stiles has to trust him.

But he can always double-check. Just to be sure. He pulls his mouth away again, gasps until he can speak, and then manages “You’d tell me if I was making you uncomfortable, right? I want you to tell me, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?” His cheeks are burning and he’s embarrassed as fuck that he can’t just let it _go._ The look Isaac gives him isn’t irritated or pissed off, though.

Isaac’s eyes are wide and open, not closed off and disdainful, and he eases himself off Stiles and wedges himself in the space between Stiles and the wall. “Hey.” He lifts a hand and trails it over Stiles’s cheek, and then uses it to turn Stiles’s head to face him. Stiles thinks about struggling against it for a moment, but he doesn’t. He lifts a hand and settles it over Isaac’s instead. “Yeah. I’d tell you. And you’d tell me, right? We’re both capable, intelligent, consenting adults. You don’t need to be worried. Do _I_ need to be worried?”

Isaac’s face is suddenly unreadable, and it freaks Stiles out a little. He quickly shakes his head. “Nope. Not about me, not at all. I’d tell you. Sorry. I just—I gotta ask. I don’t want—basically anything you don’t want, I don’t wanna do that.” He realizes he sounds a mite panicky, but he’s not sure where it’s coming from, so he has no idea what to do with it.

Isaac soothes his thumb against Stiles’s cheek and Stiles sighs and scoots closer, letting one arm slither under Isaac’s body while the other goes over and he’s holding Isaac, much like he had the other night. Isaac slips forward in the circle of his arms and _his_ arm slides under Stiles’s head. They’re nose to nose, very nearly chest to chest, and Isaac moves his hand from Stiles’s face to his chest. Stiles feels his heart throb under those fingers, so long and delicate, and he wonders if Isaac has anything _else_ that he only thinks he’s ‘sort-of okay’ at, like piano or guitar. “Stiles. You don’t have to apologize. I—I told you. I like that you ask. It…it’s nice.” Isaac tips his head forward and kisses Stiles again, gently, and then rubs their noses together.

It’s so _sweet_ , and Stiles feels so reassured and actually fucking _secure_ for once, The Question just pops out of his mouth. “Will you come home with me?”

Isaac looks politely confused, and actually cocks his head like a puppy for a moment. “To your dorm? I dunno why you’d—I mean, yeah, sure, if you don’t mind giving me a minute to put actual pants on inste—”

“No.” Stiles swallows hard and looks up at the phoenix, and it’s almost like he draws some kind of strength from it. He looks back at Isaac’s face and Isaac is starting to look _scared_ along with confused, and that fucking sucks, but he’s already started and it’s not like he can take it back now. “ _Home_ home. Beacon Hills. For…for Thanksgiving? To-to meet my dad?”

Isaac doesn’t look scared anymore. To the untrained eye, Isaac’s face is now calm and relaxed, but Stiles’s eye is very trained, and Stiles sees that his eyes are a little too wide, his nostrils are wide, like he’s not getting enough air, and his blush has drained out of his cheeks completely. Stiles…well, Stiles thinks he looks goddamn terrified. He whispers out something that Stiles could swear is “it’s not Christmas yet” and then closes his eyes and takes a deep, long breath in.

Then he opens his eyes, and they look pained as hell. Conflicted. Stiles wonders what the big deal could be. It’s just Beacon Hills. Fucking nothing ever happens there. Well, except a case of almost-arson almost ten years ago, a school shooting three years ago, and one death under ‘suspicious circumstances’ that turned out to just be some guy having a heart attack while going up his basement stairs when Stiles was nineteen, just before he’d left for school. Stiles only remembers because Dad’d been real hot about that one, real pissed off, something about the kid involved, the kid who should’ve been at schoo—

“Can I think about it?” Isaac is wincing a little, like he knows it’s a non-answer and he’s trying to apologize with his face before he does it with his mouth. Stiles’s train of thought doesn’t stop; a switch just flips and he goes in a different direction.

Stiles is surprised it’s not just outright ‘no’. “Uh. Sure? I’m leaving this upcoming Tuesday—the day after auditions? So if you uh…if you decide you want to come just let me know, okay? ‘S a ten hour drive. Can’t take the plane ‘cause Dad’s not okay to drive yet, apparently, and I don’t have the cash for a plane ticket _and_ a rental and there’s no way I’m taking Dad’s money, he’s really pissed about it. You uh—you wouldn’t have to introduce me to _your_ parents or anything, I just…I really want you to meet my dad. In. In case.” Stiles chokes up suddenly, because that’s shit he _can’t fucking think about_ no matter how possible it is, and he swallows hard. His eyes are dry, his lung capacity has just suddenly decreased, is all.

Isaac’s face goes unreadable again. Stiles really fucking hates that. That’s terrifying. It’s the most careful, quiet blank. Like Isaac’s computer brain is buffering and trying to find a way to act human in this situation. Then he just says ‘okay—I’ll let you know, okay?’ and he kisses Stiles’s cheek. He looks worried, but not terrified out of his mind anymore.

Stiles nods once, feeling his lungs bunch up that much more. “Will you—uh—will you kiss me some more?”

Isaac smiles at him, and the contact starts out slow and easy and gentle, but pretty soon they’re just making out in earnest again, open mouths and searching tongues and Isaac’s tiny yelping whimpers commas between Stiles’s much louder moans.

They carry on like this until Vernon gets back at seven, and through it all Stiles remains content to straddle the middle, even though he leaves Isaac’s room with a very uncomfortable boner. From the way Isaac drops a pillow over his crotch and then snatches up the book that at some point got knocked onto the floor—a library-shiny copy of _Watership Down_ , Stiles guesses that he’s not fairing much better. He waves as he heads out of the door, more at Isaac than Vernon, and Isaac’s eyes suddenly pop wide and he yells “Hey, I like your shirt!”

Did he _really_ just notice that? Well, Stiles can probably stop agonizing about what clothes he wears now.

He reaches out and catches the door just before it closes, sticks his head in, and says “I like your book…and your face!” and then skedaddles the fuck outta there before Vernon says anything.

The laughter chases him down the hall before the door gets shut the rest of the way, though.

It’s totally both of them.

 

Friday, Saturday, and Sunday pass by sluggishly and yet all at once. Stiles feels like he’s working himself up into a nervous breakdown by the time Monday comes around, because he and Isaac have hung out twice (and made out once more) in those three days and Isaac still hasn’t said anything and he doesn’t want to pressure Isaac, but a reiteration of The Question’s been floating around just under everything he’s said and he thinks Isaac can sense it, because Saturday he was super hesitant about going to auditions with Stiles even though they’re both gonna be there.

He gets three people’s drink orders wrong and one of them belongs to Laura Hale, the owner. “Do me a favor and put the ‘Help Wanted’ sign up before you clock out, ‘kay?”

He eyes her like a wild horse who’s just spotted a snake. “Are you trying to tell me something here?” He’s snappish and his voice is pitchy and high. Okay, he’s officially freaking out. He’s worked here for almost two years. She’s not just gonna _fire_ him, right?

“Jesus, Stiles, I’m not just gonna _fire_ you.” Yes, good, he needs to hear that. “I just think you could use some help on your shift. The line was all the way to the corner this afternoon.”

Oh, yeah. He’d actually forgotten about that. The fact that finals were coming up soon meant that Yellow Eyes got a metric fuck-ton of business, it was probably a good idea to hire someone.

 

Isaac comes in just as he’s taking the sign out of its little cubby hole, and Stiles just stares slack-jawed for a minute because holy _shit_. He’s in dark grey slacks and a dark blue button down (not tucked in, no Isaac’s too goddamn suave for that) with a grey tie, and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and just _goddamn_ he looks amazing. He’s carrying a nondescript black folder under one arm, a dark leather messenger bag is over one shoulder, and he looks like a lawyer-to-be or something. Only his build and the ease of his movement gives him away.

“Holy fuck you look hot.” Stiles blushes, because of course he does, and Isaac smiles and leans casually against the counter.

“Hello to you, too. Not the only one.” He eyes Stiles appreciably and Stiles feels the tips of his ears flush. He looks good, but not like _that_. The Purple Shirt of Sex Allison brought home for him last week can only take him so far. “I just went home and changed. You sure it looks okay? Goddamn but it’s cold outside.” Isaac looks around the shop quickly—nobody here but that one girl and her headphones again, Stiles is pleased to note. “Kiss me?”

Isaac leans against the counter and Stiles blinks in surprise before saying “looks awesome” and complying.

Isaac’s mouth is fucking freezing. “Isaac, why can’t you just wear a coat like a normal person?” Stiles rubs up and down Isaac’s forearms, expression one of only half-feigned horror. “Hang on, lemme go get my coat outta the back, if anyone comes in just stand there and look at them, I’m sure they’ll be too distracted to wonder where the hell I am.” He leaves Isaac then, without another word.

When he comes back Isaac is looking at the sign curiously. “You guys hiring?”

Stiles blinks and passes his coat over the counter. “Uh…apparently? You got a resumé?”

Isaac puts the wool peacoat on backwards and Stiles can’t figure out what he’s doing until he realizes that Isaac’s hands haven’t poked out of the sleeves yet. He’s looking at Isaac curiously and Isaac looks up at him and smiles this loose easy grin that makes Stiles _feel_ loose and easy. In more ways than one. “Mhm, yes, actually, I do. You got an application? Thanks for this—” Isaac tilts his head down to indicate the coat “—by the way. The only things that really get cold are my hands. I always tell myself ‘you’re gonna regret not putting that on’ but I dunno…the cold makes me move faster.”

“You were really that big a rush to get here?” Stiles’s eyebrows raise, and if he looks skeptical, well, that’s ‘cause he _is_.

“Don’t wanna be late for auditions, do we?” Isaac just barely bites his bottom lip and bats his eyelashes at Stiles, obviously playing it up, but subtle is maybe the _only_ word in Isaac’s vocabulary, as far as Stiles is aware.

He grins and gives Isaac’s shoulder a little shove, but he doesn’t push hard, and it’s easier to just keep his hand over that broad slope than take it away. It’s so weird that Isaac calms him down while at the same time making him more anxious, because there it is, The Question, he could ask again right now, but instead he says, “You do know we have fourty minutes to get there, and my replacement’ll be here in twenty, right?”

“Mhm, I’m aware.” Isaac tilts his head onto his own shoulder, so Stiles’s hand is trapped, but Stiles is glad for it. His stomach does a quick series of flops as Isaac looks into his eyes, and then Isaac turns his head and kisses the back of Stiles’s hand.

Isaac doesn’t blush, but Stiles does. He takes his hand back and smiles, then fills up a cup with hot water and puts a lemon tea bag in it.

“What’re you doing?” Isaac’s voice is openly curious in a way that Stiles finds familiar, and honestly kind of endearing.

“Buying you tea. The interview comes if Laura likes that. Then you’ll fill out official paperwork if Laura likes _you_. Sound okay?”

Stiles looks up just as Isaac smiles, and it takes him way longer than it ought to get a few ice chips out of the little open cooler with his favorite silver scoop so Isaac can drink it as soon as it gets done steeping. Goddamn is he attractive.

“Sounds like _Ten Inch Hero_. But sure.”

Stiles breaks into a huge fucking grin and sets Isaac’s drink on the counter in front of him as he pulls out his wallet to pay for the tea. “Elvis: dead or alive?”

Isaac rolls his eyes. “Dead. Andy Kaufman is also dead. All of those people are dead except for Bob Weir, I'm pretty sure he's still alive.”

Stiles pauses in the middle of his transaction, head cocked to the side like he heard something funny. He walks back over and eyes Isaac for a moment, more considers him, really, and then kisses Isaac firmly on the mouth. He then strides back over to the cash register and keeps making change for his ten.

Isaac doesn’t react but to grin that much more broadly and lick his lips.


	5. Lovely Lady, Come Along And Join Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where there’s lots of singing and Isaac almost breaks, quite literally, in fact, and that's the least important thing that happens but probably the one he'll remember most clearly.
> 
> Two hands' lengths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, Emmie, I love your face. <3 You're fucking spectacular, you Golden Goddess, you. The only reason I can crank these out so quick is 'cause you pretty much coached me into writing more every day. You and Stiles. /sigh

At this moment, Stiles’s mouth feels good. That’s the only thought in Isaac’s head. The only worry he has is accidentally slobbering all over him.

He wonders if kissing is _always_ supposed to feel like this. Slow. Relaxing. Easy. And yet somehow incendiary.

They’re parked in front of the theater, the smaller one, the one that’s not named after anybody. The Little Grand, he’s pretty sure it’s called. Stiles has the heater running and they have fifteen minutes to get inside and fill out the standard forms. Name, age, casting preference, what aren’t you willing to do, etc. Well, the last time Isaac looked they had fifteen minutes. He has no idea how long they have now.

He slips his hand down Stiles’s neck, just over the back of it, and Stiles whines high and unfettered into his mouth. It makes Isaac whimper. He thinks it’s amazing, how Stiles can be so loud, can let himself give up that control.

Other thoughts start to encroach, and he redoubles his efforts in an attempt to fight them off, but he fails.

He feels like an asshole for still leaving Stiles hanging about the whole ‘come home with me’ thing, but Stiles _had_ kind of sprung it on him, and that little comment about his family…how is he supposed to say it? Is he supposed to just say, right out, ‘I don’t have any they’re all dead?’ Will he have to talk about what happened to his dad? Will Stiles need to know that they thought _he_ did it? That he’d panicked when they put the handcuffs on him and headbutted the arresting officer in the face and broken his nose _and_ the cop's? That he was in actual jail during orientation? That he’d been sure he was going to be convicted of a felony even though he _hadn’t_ killed his dad—at least, not directly—and the only reason he _wasn’t_ was because the Whittemores and some anonymous police officer’d taken pity on him? Will he have to say this shit out loud _again_?

Isaac’d thought he’d cleaned all the ashes off, but now he’s starting to think they never wash away completely. That home is inescapable. That this shit will _always_ come back to haunt him.

He’s a little pissed about it, mostly because the ghost of his father doesn’t even have the decency to give him advice or prophecy—it only serves to make him afraid. The same way the bastard had when he was alive.

Shit Isaac wishes he could hate him.

But these are no thoughts to have while kissing. He forces himself into the moment, into the feeling of Stiles’s mouth on his own, as firmly as he can, and his thoughts drift away like mist.

Finally Stiles pulls away and looks down at his watch, and the sudden panic written all over his face tells Isaac exactly how much time they have left.

Stiles leaves his coat in the car. As they sprint across the freezing parking lot, Stiles huffs out “Holy shit, babe, it really does make you faster!”

Isaac thinks he’s wiping Stiles out because he’s a goddamn _dancer_ and the entire point of his life is movement, but he stops completely then, panting harshly because the cold fucking _burns_ , eyes huge and staring and maybe, if you’re looking for it, a little afraid. Isaac is excellent at masking fear, and he’s aware of it, but he also knows that it’s not a perfect mask. Maybe one day. “Babe?”

Stiles catches up to him and grabs his hand. “Yeah? C’mon, dude, hurry the fuck up or Derek’ll skin your cute little dancer ass!”

So apparently they call each other ‘babe’ now? Stiles does a lot of asking, something Isaac’s never experienced before and _really_ likes, but he also randomly does _other_ stuff that Isaac’s never experienced and takes it as innocuous and normal and ‘babe’ is new for him, ‘babe’ is very not normal, and he doesn’t let anybody call him anything but Isaac or Lahey now that Erica’s gone. When she was particularly pissed off at him and they were still emailing back and forth, she tacked a ‘sweetheart’ or ‘darlin’’ onto almost every sentence in leu of his actual name…but she did that when she was really fucking happy, too, and it was next to impossible to tell which was going on unless he got it from context clues.

Isaac realizes then that they’re almost at the doors, and shoves Erica out of his head. Thinking about friendships that burned out with distance, emails and calls that’d slowly trickled away to nothing regardless of history and how close they’d been in high school…shit, he shouldn’t be doing it.

This is no time to depress himself or start agonizing about sending another false-sounding email. He has to be Enjorlas in probably an hour. It’s hard, but he’s getting better about not thinking about her, like he’s getting better about not thinking about his dad or brother or mom.

He hates himself for how easy it’s becoming to just _forget_ people.

 

The heat of the lobby feels good, and he’s lost from this point on because there doesn’t seem to be anyone else here, but then Stiles leads him down a corridor off to the side, going from marble to carpet once again. The high walls are lined with pictures from plays. Isaac recognizes a few of them as Signature Vernon Boyds—the really good ones with the intense lighting that look more like they’re from actual moments that occured instead of elaborately staged productions. Stiles kisses him on the lips in front of a bunch of people lined up to sign the sign-in sheet and somebody whistles.

Isaac blushes and rolls his eyes, but Stiles just says “Oh grow the fuck up Scott,” so that’s okay then.

 

Ten minutes later, they’ve signed in and are huddled in the green room with perhaps forty other people, who’re leaking out into the hallway because the room’s nowhere near big enough. Once the auditions actually _start_ they’ll all migrate to the auditorium, but for now they’re cramped together uncomfortably, trying not to freak the hell out at the sheer amount of _competition_. Isaac is seeing vague, strained terror on every face, and he looks around for Vernon, heart throbbing high in his throat as Stiles talks animatedly with a thin, tall ginger girl with up-tilted green eyes. Stiles introduced them, but Isaac wasn’t paying attention and he’s more concerned in making sure that Vernon didn’t ditch. He’d almost turned Stiles down when he asked if they could go together, as much as he wanted to, because he’s not sure if Vernon’ll be able to do this without some encouragement.

Vernon is nothing if not a creature of extreme habit.

A bright burst of laughter comes from the hallway, piercingly clear in a momentary lull in the din of sticking a ridiculous amount of theatre people in the same room. Logically, Isaac knows that some of them are dancers and some of them are singers and there might even be a few _musicians_ in this mix, but none of the people in his current eye-line are looking disdainful or disgusted (the dancers) or overconfident and snooty as shit (the singers) or tapping their fingers and toes and grinning excitedly (the musicians).

Isaac knows it’s wrong to make generalizations, but those are usually pretty accurate.

There’s that _laughter_ again. It sounds almost painfully familiar, and there’s no way in hell it’s who he’s thinking—she’s in _New York_. There’s no way she’d come cross-country for Thanksgiving. Not for _her_ mom. And her mom lives in Portland now anyway, there’s no reason for her to be here _at all_. He squeezes Stiles’s hand and mutters ‘pardon me’ as he backs away from Stiles and his friend, and the woman gives him a cursory glance as he wanders off. Stiles looks way more concerned, has his mouth open, presumably to ask what’s up, but Miss Ginger Person tugs his sleeve and he smiles and goes back to talking.

Isaac would probably be a little (irrationally) jealous, but he’s ‘excuse me’-ing himself through the giant knot of people and he’s a little too busy to do anything but listen for that laughter again.

He hears it, bright, open, and just a little mean, as he finally gets out of the door.

“ _Vernon_. And you swear you’re not kidding?”

Holy shit.

A single quote, originally courtesy of Stephen King but something he will forever hear in Stiles’s voice, bolts through his mind.

_Reality is Ralph._

Holy _shit_.

He stands there frozen, because Vernon is leaning against the wall a few feet to his right speaking in low tones, and Isaac can’t see her yet. But he knows she’s there.

He has no idea how to feel.

First there’s anger—why wouldn’t she tell himshe was going to be in town? What the fuck is she _doing_ here?

He skips denial, because seriously, nobody laughs like that but her.

Then despair comes, intense and incredible and nearly palpable, mixed with guilt, because they were supposed to be friends for their whole lives. They were never supposed to grow apart, but 2,800 miles is a great distance to overcome, especially when you used to be able to bike to your best friend’s house and now you can only Skype on your off days, which never line up and are always busy as shit because you’re both stupid and too eager to achieve things and _be_ someone so you took 18 course hours even though you really only needed 12 and it turns out to be 24 because of all the goddamn practice you have to do, and email’s not the same and texting’s not the same and eventually you lose track of the names they’re calling people and the bullshit you have to go through just to say ‘hello’ becomes this constant reminder that they’re nowhere near you and they’re growing and they’re _changing_ and if you saw them on the street you probably wouldn’t even recognize them—

Vernon says something about water and there’s that laugh again, the same laugh, no matter how different everything else might be that laugh hasn’t changed since she was fifteen years old and that fucker put her online while she was having a seizure, it's a goddamn _bitter_ laugh but it's also beautiful and Isaac should really get out of the way because if Vernon moves she’s gonna see him—

And Vernon _does_ move, his broad white-clad back shifting off the wall and down the hallway, and she’s not looking at him, but she’s there, and he’s hit with a peculiar stab of déjà vu. She looks way more familiar than she ought to, for him not having seen her for over a year. She’s wearing the cherry red lipstick she’d started favoring once she got out to New York, her skin seems much clearer than he can ever remember it being, her eyes are lined just barely with a dark but metallic gray and her eyelashes are full of black mascara, and her hair is sleek and blonde again and down to her waist—

Then she looks at him. Over him, seems like. She double-takes when she realizes he’s staring, smile going catty, coy, but then it goes huge and full and _amazing_ and she might as well be ten again—

Despair gives way to joy and it only takes two long steps and then he’s hugging her. A void in his chest he’d been able to ignore for almost a whole seven months now caves in and is filled, and he picks her up and spins her, and she’s laughing that laugh and pounding on his shoulder saying “Put me down, Lahey! Put me the fuck _down_!” but she used his last name so he knows she’s kidding. He buries his face in her strawberry-smelling hair and settles her feet back on the floor and just _hugs_.

She’s a little bit thinner than he remembers, and the red silk crepe of her dress hangs off her shoulders _perfectly._ He pulls back and just _looks_ at her.

This is a far, far cry from the Erica-in-sweats he knew in high school. There’s actual freaking _cleavage_ going on here. And chains on her bare shoulders. And she’s wearing black leather leggings and heels that bring her forehead level with Isaac’s lips, black ankle boots _with a peep toe_. About 99% of the time, he gives zero fucks about other people’s clothes, but this is Erica not wearing a t-shirt and jeans.

This is Erica looking _fucking hot_.

This is a big goddamn deal.

“Holy _shit_ Isaac you look awesome!”

He realizes she’s been once-overing him while he was once-overing her and he laughs. “Nuh- _uh_ —you look fucking incredible! Is that a studded leather bracelet on your wrist?! Goddamn, Erica, you look fucking great—what are you _doing_ here?”

At this Erica raises her eyebrow and settles one arm on his shoulder, tugging him down conspiratorially. She looks left, then right, then checks the _actual hallway_ , and, once satisfied, says in not even a hint of a whisper, “I’m auditioning for Les Mis. What about you?”

 

Isaac is pretty sure his brain shorts out as Erica tells him about her transfer, her _transfer_ , her _fucking transfer oh my fucking god_. Apparently a set of professors the university's getting next semester, a Dr. Kali Clamant and Dr. Ennis Wesson, will be worth it _and_ the U-Haul to drag her shit across country. SPAU offered her a full scholarship and money was getting tight going with Julliard anyway, since they only covered about half her costs. She even found a job here in the city—after a trial night at some club they hired her for weekend nights or something, Isaac’s freaking out too hard to be certain. Isaac is feeling a combination of massive joy and crushing anxiety, because they’ve immediately fallen into their old rhythm, her talking and him asking questions, and it feels _safe_ and really good and…and _normal_ and he fucking misses it but he doesn’t know if either one of them’ll be able to just _get over_ being ignored by the other person for a year. He’d only been able to deal after having a goddamn identity crisis which lead to a breakdown which lead to…well, to _this_. He’s nowhere near the same person anymore.

Shit, he doesn’t even know if Erica’ll _like_ this version of him.

She snaps her fingers in front of his face and he notices three things in quick succession. She doesn’t bite her nails anymore. They’re painted in sparkly silver instead of black. She’s wearing a ring on her thumb.

“Hey, space cadet, look—you okay? I know this is a lot to take in—”

“Am I _okay_? Seriously? I’m _great_ , Erica, I missed you so goddamn bad I could barely stand it. I just…yeah. I missed you.”

Erica smiles at him, that happiest-kid-in-the-world smile. “Missed you, too, shithead. Now what’s with the love life? Boy—” She coughs and then rolls her eyes. “‘Scuse me, _Vernon_ says there’s a love life now. Not like a ‘fuck for a month or less and move on’ life, like a legit love life. So spill your guts. Who?”

There’s a tap on his shoulder, and he knows who it’s gonna be before he even turns around. Reality _is_ Ralph tonight.

He grins at Stiles and takes his hand, and then pulls him forward. “Uh, this guy. Stiles Stilinski. Boyfriend. Stiles, Erica. Best friend. So yeah, that’s what’s going on there.”

Stiles only looks at Erica’s face (which Isaac thinks is kind of incredible because the rest of her looks _goddamn amazing_ ) and grins brilliantly. “Nice to make your acquaintance, mademoiselle. How come I haven’t seen you around campus before this?”

She grins at him, but it’s her mean grin, it’s her ‘I’m only being polite to you because I have to be’ grin, and Isaac doesn’t know why she’s immediately decided she hates his boyfriend, but she has. “That’s ‘cause I don’t go here, sweetheart. Won’t until next semester.” She flips a slip of her blonde hair behind her shoulder and grins brilliantly at Isaac just as Vernon walks back into sight with two water bottles. He lifts a hand to Isaac, and both Isaac and Stiles give a little wave.

“Nervous, Vernon?” Stiles asks it so seriously, like he’s asking a comrade in battle if a wound he has is still bleeding. Isaac squeezes his hand and Stiles leans into him, just barely, and smiles.

Vernon hands Erica her water and shrugs. Stiles nods once and Isaac thinks that maybe Stiles thinks that Vernon is resting his voice or something.

He wants to laugh, but he feels too bad.

Thank god it’s then that Derek appears at the end of the hall. He calls “we’re ready for you” and those grouped in the green room and in the hall turn into a seething mass of single-minded creatures, and that single mind is moving them to get a seat and scope out those they’re fighting against.

 

Vernon and Erica take the last two seats on the front row, and he and Stiles settle for some farther back. As each person goes up, Isaac feels a weird companionship with them. He wants desperately for them to succeed, to see the triumph in their faces, and at once he wants them to fail so miserably that he knows he doesn’t have to worry about them. This is just auditions for those who’re trying for an actual named roll—ensemble auditions are tomorrow. He sees a few dancers he recognizes, but none of them are strictly _friends_. They nod respectfully to each other when they make eye contact. This is foreign territory, the Theatre department, and he’s showing solidarity with _his_ department, even if he can only remember like three of these people’s names.

Stiles is practically vibrating beside him, clutching at his hand and bouncing around, grinning broad and wide at everyone he recognizes.

The accompanist is professional and precise, and Isaac is grateful for it.

Ms Ginger Person is okay. A little angry for Isaac’s taste. At least she doesn’t sing something from _Phantom of the Opera_ or _Rent_ , for some reason those are the most popular today.

Then he hears the word “Boyd” and every molecule of air is sucked out of the room. He doesn’t know if Derek did it because there’s more than one Vernon on the roster, but fuck if he can’t feel sudden tension coming off Vernon from six rows away. He risks a look at Stiles and Stiles’s eyebrows are knit together, his eyes are moving from left to right quickly, like he’s reading something in the air in front of him, and then he makes an ‘oh my god’ face—Isaac supposes it’s finally clicked, and there’s not much he can do but nod uncomfortably as Stiles sits there with his mind blown gesturing from Vernon to Isaac to himself with his eyes _huge_. Stiles sits back and slaps his hand onto his forehead, sinking down into his seat.

Then there’s a giggle, the only sound thus far that’s broken the respectful silence of the theater, and a smacking sound, and Vernon gets up and passes his portfolio over Erica’s head. Isaac presumes it’ll be passed back once Derek’s done with it. It reaches Derek and the costume designer and set designer in a matter of moments—they’ve taken the middle row and there’s a respective square of empty seats around them. Isaac’s never had an audition like this—where everyone goes all at once, in an open auditorium, but it’s nice. Much more high pressure.

It’s then that he realizes that Vernon’s wiping a wet red lipstick print off his cheek before he goes onstage. He tilts in his seat a little and sure enough, Erica is re-applying. What’s going on _there_?

Stiles is still pretty much just bouncing, and he gives Vernon a double thumbs-up as he turns to face this audience of his peers. Isaac copies Stiles, and when Stiles laces their fingers together again he kisses the back of Stiles’s hand.

Vernon smiles. He’s not looking at them.

Vernon takes a deep breath and Stiles seems like he’s about to shake apart. Isaac gives him an admiring, if quick, look. “Hello, my name is Vernon Boyd. I’ll be singing [“Dulcenia”](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oLsQvCKG58k) from _Man of La Mancha_.”

Instead of giving him the go-ahead like _literally every other person has gotten_ , Derek holds up a hand. “And do you have a casting preference, Vernon?”

Vernon answers without hesitation. “Jean Valjean.”

There’s a collective little gasp from the crowd. Isaac rolls his eyes—theatre people can be so _dramatic_. He looks over at Stiles, whose eyes are wide, his free hand clapped over his mouth.

Theatre people can be cute as hell, too.

His eyes rove through (overly) stunned faces and back up at the panel of three. Derek looks unsurprised. Stoic, almost. He makes that go-ahead gesture and Vernon opens his mouth and sings his selection.

_“I have dreamed thee too long,_

_Never seen thee or touched thee._

_But known thee with all of my heart._ ”

A second gasp goes up, and Isaac smiles. Vernon is a miser with his singing voice.  This is probably the first time any of these people’ve heard him do more than hum. He sounds incredible. It reminds Isaac of Brian Stokes Mitchell himself.

_“Half a prayer, half a song,_

_Thou hast always been with me,_

_Though we have been always apart._

_Dulcinea... Dulcinea..._

_I see heaven when I see thee, Dulcinea,_

_And thy name is like a prayer_

_An angel whispers... Dulcinea... Dulcinea.”_

Vernon’s spectacular. Honestly, genuinely spectacular. He’s showing off his range, he’s not shaking, his voice is staying strong and beautiful—

“ _If I reach out to thee—_ ”

He actually does reach out then, and toward _Erica_. Holy shit. There’s totally a thing going on there.

Isaac has money on Erica kissing Vernon on the mouth first. He’s gotta find somebody to bet with. He wonders if Stiles’ll do it.

“ _Do not tremble and shrink_

_From the touch of my hand on thy hair._

_Let my fingers but see_

_Thou art warm and alive,_

_And no phantom to fade in the air._

_Dulcinea... Dulcinea..._

_I have sought thee, sung thee,_

_Dreamed thee, Dulcinea!_

_Now I've found thee,_

_And the world shall know thy glory,_

_Dulcinea... Dulcinea!_ ”

Most people’ve been stopped well before they actually finish, but they let Vernon do his whole piece, and to Isaac’s astonishment, after an initial thirty second pause, applause comes from dead-center.

It’s Derek.

 

So when it’s his turn, he chokes a little. It usually happens. His voice cracks on ‘now’. No big deal. Except it cracks so hard it actually really of _hurts_ and involuntary tears spill out of his eyes. There’s silence for a good ten seconds, and then Derek lets out a woosh of breath and gives him a thumbs up that he _maybe_ thinks is covert, but it isn’t, not a little bit, and Isaac goes and sits back down.

Stiles is crying again. Isaac kisses him hot and fast, dripping his tongue into Stiles’s mouth, before he sits down.

That guy, Scott, he whistles again, and Stiles raises his middle finger behind him, blushing red and looking pleased.

 

Erica goes at some point after him, he’s too caught up in pre-performance adrenaline to really know how long it took, and she says she’s going to sing something called [“The Sea of Life”](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sOOdB0Eknbs) from _The Pirate Queen_. Derek snorts, and she winks at him. 

“ _On the sea of life_

 _Trav'lers all are we—_ ”

Holy fuck. That’s why Erica didn’t look as unfamiliar as he thought she would. _The club that tried her out was Club Fenris_. His mouth gapes open—the quality of her voice is different, more silky, but it’s unmistakably the same person, and he looks at Stiles to see if it clicked for him, too.

Stiles is wearing an identical shocked expression. So yeah, probably.

“ _At it's mercy, to and fro_

_Where it takes us, there we'll go._

_Tides may ebb and tides may flow,_

_yet steady stays the sea._ ”

Isaac has a feeling that this song maybe doesn’t have as much energy as Erica’s giving it, but _goddamn_ she sounds great. He can see her getting cast as Fantine, easy. Maybe even Éponine. She’s a mezzo-soprano if she’s anything, and she has the most beautiful tone.

“ _I'll do what I believe, and pray, prevail._

_I'll stay fast to my course, succeed or fail,_

_And give my faith this night_

_To this, the sea we sail._

_Sail the sea of life_

_Trav'lers all are we_

_At it's mercy, to and fro_

_Where it takes us, there we'll go._

_Tides may ebb and tides may flow,_

_yet steady stays the sea._ ”

There’s not quite as much silence this time, but he sees a lot of appreciative head-nods in her direction and thumbs up. A few people even do silent applause, lifting their hands in the air and twisting their wrists back and forth quickly. She grins and dips a little bow before practically bouncing offstage.

Isaac is betting on Éponine. Goddamn he hopes Stiles is a gambling man.

 

Stiles gets called a little while later and gives Isaac a bruising kiss before he goes. He’s twitching a little and shaking as he walks down, but once he gets on stage, all of that falls away. His eyes go half-lidded, his shoulders relax…he looks like he’s just come home.

Isaac leans forward and puts his elbows on his knees, heart pounding in his chest. He crosses his fingers. _Shit_ he hopes Stiles is as good as he suspects. He's just getting a good feelin'.

Stiles gives a homey wave and says “Stiles Stilinski performing [“Don’t Do Sadness”](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mJtjgFF9l-4) from _Spring Awakening_.”

Isaac’s heart gives a little jump. He’s always adored this song, identified with it to hell and back, and he’s so interested to hear Stiles’s take on it. He’s heard Stiles sing in the car, and he hums a lot, but it’s never just been a piano and Stiles.

Stiles smiles a little, a grin that barely turns up at the edges, and then he goes.

“ _Awful sweet to be a little butterfly_

_Just wingin' over things and nothing deep inside_

_Nothing goin', goin' wild in you, you know_

_You're slowin' by the riverside_

_A-floatin' high and blue_

_Or maybe cool to be a little summer wind_

_Like once through everything and then away again_

_With the taste of dust in your mouth all day but no need to know_

_Like sadness_

_You just sail away_ …”

Isaac is completely fucking enraptured. He can’t even breathe. Stiles is so loose, so easy, but there’s strain just under his skin, there’s _pain_.

_“‘Cause ya’ know_

_I don’t do sadness_ —”

Isaac’s mouth falls open. Holy fuck. Stiles didn’t hit that note, he _killed_ it. Goddamn. He can’t think of enough adjectives, enough expletives—

“ _Not even a little bit_

_Just don’t need it in my life_

_Don’t want any part of it_

_I don’t do sadness_

_Hey, I’ve done my time,_

_Lookin’ back on it all_

_And it blows my mind_

_I don’t do sadness_

_So been there,_

_Don’t do sadness_

_Just don’t care._ ”

Stiles sighs and closes his eyes, all the weight falling off him, and then he smiles out at the audience and gives that little wave again and Isaac _really_ fucking wants to latch onto his mouth and just not _stop_. Derek gives Stiles a ‘subtle’ thumbs up and then Stiles comes and sits down. Isaac’s not crying, but he _is_ hard, and about ready to just grab Stiles and kiss him until he can’t even breathe anymore. He wants to tug Stiles into his lap instead of onto the seat, but instead he just kisses Stiles open and full and kisses along his cheek until he gets to Stiles’s ear, so he can whisper to him.

“You were perfect.”

Stiles shivers.

 

He has to wait another forty-five minutes, and by then he’s squirming in his seat right along with Stiles. He doesn’t really pay attention any of the other performances, and they could probably go ahead and leave, but Isaac knows Stiles has friends he needs to congratulate or comfort, and Isaac is much the same. Finally Derek stands and opens his arms. “Thank you for coming out! We have your information, and we’ll call you before school gets back in! If you don’t hear from us, feel free to try out for ensemble after the break! Happy Thanksgiving and get the _fuck_  out of my theater.”

Isaac hears a grumble of ‘fucking student directors’ somewhere behind him and laughs as he stands.

It’s a pretty common phrase on campus.

 

He and Stiles linger by the small staircase that actually leads up into the theater itself once they struggle out. Isaac gets visitations from a few other dancers offering their support, the ones that hate him the most but also respect him the most, and he offers his own in kind, though he honestly doesn’t remember any of their performances. Stiles quickly acquires a few hangers-on and Miss Ginger Person is among them, but none of Isaac’s people stay for very long until Erica and Vernon join him.

All at once it’s like there’s no one else around them, not even Stiles, and they’re shooting the shit just like they used to in third period gym Junior year. He finds himself slouching a little, stuffing his hands into his pockets. Erica’s got her arms wrapped around her chest, and Vernon’s mimicking both her _and_ Isaac, crossing his arms and bending his head forward. The years are suddenly gone and they’re a small group of uncomfortable high school kids, uncomfortable as shit with _themselves_ but not so much with each other. Erica’s hair drips into her face a little and she doesn’t push it back. There’s no wall to lean against, so Isaac hunches down further. Erica’s talking about some social experiment that went on in New York, something one of her classmates did for grant money, and Vernon is trying not to watch her too closely and Isaac thinks maybe Vernon’s a little bit in love.

Then Isaac’s back actually starts to _ache_ a little and he straightens up, straightens his neck, lifts up his chin. The spell is broken as suddenly as it came upon them. They’re successful, performance-oriented, talented _adults_ now. All of them away from that fucking horrible place that has nothing but bad memories now that Erica’s mom moved out to Portland and Vernon’s gram to San Jose. Isaac is the only one who still has family there, a reason to go back, an actual connection. (It doesn't really matter that they're bodies rotting in the ground; they're still  _there_ , he can't just pretend they're not all the time, though he tries.)

He envies them a little. Erica flips her hair out of her face and settles her arms on her hips, Vernon leaves his arms but stands straighter and cocks his head, and Isaac hears bright, unabashed laughter that makes him smile but paints Erica and Vernon’s faces in equal shades of mild disdain. It irritates him, and he grits his teeth, but he doesn’t actually say anything.

They have a right to hate their former lives and want to forget them. Stiles makes that difficult for them. Hell, if Isaac’d realized he probably would’ve turned tail and fled Yellow Eyes within five seconds of realizing that it was _that_ Stiles.

That Stiles who he’d…kind of had nothing whatsoever to do with aside from occasionally sitting near on the bench? That Stiles who hadn’t recognized _any_ of them?

Is it really just the imprint of Beacon Hills on him, those dark and shitty memories of high school, or is there more?

“So how long?” It’s a question Isaac’s been putting off, because it could change Erica’s whole mood depending on what the answer is.

She smirks, and he relaxes inside, but his face gives nothing away. They’re like this sometimes. Playing parts. “Come outside and have a smoke with me, and I’ll show you.”

Isaac quit two years ago.

He goes anyway.

 

Vernon is sloughed off the group as they make their exit, the crowd still gathered in the lobby swallowing him. He either decided he didn’t want to come or was snatched by someone he knows. Isaac isn’t sure which, but he feels guilty for being a little bit glad.

No one knows Erica, though some people offer her smiles or high-fives, because she's kind of hard to forget.

Isaac exchanges kurt nods with some people, but that’s all.

Erica dips back into the green room for her bag and a bulky leather jacket that makes her look like an aviator but somehow doesn’t take away her sex appeal at all. If anything, it makes her hotter.

Isaac thinks she’s gonna slay here at SPAU. From the grin she gives him, she knows it.

“You still not wearing jackets, dumbass?”

Isaac rolls his eyes. “You still askin’ stupid questions?”

She sticks her tongue out at him and leads him into the night, into the parking lot. His breath is coming out in frozen gusts in no time and he pulls out his phone to turn the volume up, because he has someone who actually texts him now, someone he just left in there without a word…shit. He should probably rectify that. He texts as they walk, and quickly, so he doesn’t bother with capitalization or anything even though it drives him crazy.

 **You** : hey sorrry erica wanted to show me something gotta talk to you meet you at your car in ten?

He runs into Erica’s back and she scoffs, so he puts his phone up. Her eyes widen as she watches him put his phone up. She’s digging something out of her messenger bag, the same style as Isaac’s . “Well, that’s new. Texting and walking at the same time, huh, Lahey?” She comes up with a wooden box, and for a crazy moment he wonders if she switched to cigars.

What she pulls out is a thin metal tube he recognizes instantly as an electronic cigarette. “Holy shit, you quit.”

She starts the thing and then sucks in a breath of it. On the clove-smelling exhale, she smiles at him, just barely. “Mhm. Following in your footsteps or some shit. Did you have to use one of these to get off them?”

“No.”

Erica smiles a little. Bitterly, he thinks. “You wouldn’t. You’re always so good at torturing yourself.”

Isaac blinks a few times, jaw setting. Why’s she trying to start a fight right now? What the fuck are they _out here for_? He’s freezing his goddamn balls off. “Mhm, and you’re good at being cryptic and pissing me off. Erica, it’s thirty degrees—why did we come out here? What’re you showing me exactly? Just…just say what you’re trying to fucking say.” He can’t deal with a half-hour of beating around the bush, not when he has to tell his boyfriend that he can’t go ‘home’ with him tomorrow. He just…he can’t. He doesn’t have to justify it to anyone, least of all himself. He can’t.

‘Can’t’ is easy.

He can _see_ Erica start to drop her ‘cigarette’ and grind her heel onto it—senior year she said it was her favorite part about smoking them. That scrape, the finality of putting out a flame, of having control over that force.

Now she flicks it off and drops it back in the box, not quite glaring at him, not yet. She stuffs the box back in her bag and then sits astride a _fucking cherry-red Harley_.

Goddamn.

Over a year without a seizure, at least if she renewed her license in New York.

 _Goddamn_.

His mouth dangles open and she smiles, mouth and motorbike matching. She twists around and unlocks a small masterlock keeping her red and sporty as fuck helmet strapped to the back. The face guard doesn’t go over her mouth. It makes him nervous. “You know exactly what I mean, Isaac. And yes, this _is_ actually my bike. I had it driven out before I got here. I’m starting the trip back to New York tomorrow, and I’m coming back on it during the fall-spring change over. She’s my baby. Her name's Anya.”

He’s having trouble comprehending this, but it makes a sick kind of sense in his head. Erica’d always been a little too hot for danger, for risks. He doesn’t tell her that biking across country is stupid as fuck, especially in the northern part where the roads get icy—he knows that she knows. And that it’s a big part of why she’s doing it.

“Be careful and make it back in one piece. This ride is _cool as fuck_ , Erica.”

She looks up at him then, and tightens her chin strap. She really does look like she’s about to fly a plane. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll see you in a month or two. Take care of your lanky ass.” She beams at him then, that ten-year-old grin, and he hugs her around her shoulders. She pats his arm as she cranks the bike up. “Tell Vernon I said ‘hey’.”

He nods, and watches her motor away, dress flapping merrily as she rides big and loud through the parking lot that’s just now starting to crowd, joining the exodus to home. And probably bars. There’ll be a lot of heavy drinking after this one, he guesses.

They don’t say ‘goodbye’, because they don’t. It’s just not something they’ve ever done. He’s glad it’s not big and soppy. ‘S just like him going home for the night during sixth grade summer. No ‘bye’. Just ‘going home’ and he went. Later, getting off Skype. ‘Bed now’ and a head nod and then gone. Never even ‘bye’ over the phone.

God he missed her.

 

He actually stands in her empty parking space for a while, staring up at the absence of stars and watching his breath gust out in white wisps, resolutely not feeling that emptiness yet. He likes that things are easy with Erica, and yet he is uneasy.

Probably just a character trait at this point.

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he starts jogging through the parking lot before he even checks it, realizing he's still leaving Stiles hanging. He tugs it out as he goes, frozen fingers only loosely curling around the thing. He has to really think about it to get his hand to close.

 **Stiles** : No problem! Heater’s running! :)

He smiles and sees Stiles’s jeep across the parking lot from him, under a street light, and turns toward it without looking. Then there are headlights and someone is fucking _standing_ on the horn and he looks over, mind clear of all thought but ‘can’t see Stiles from here’. His breath is dammed in his lungs. His eyes widen and his normally fluid limbs lock up from a combination of supposition and chill.

The car, a sporty brown Prius, stops maybe two hand lengths away from his hip. His breath releases in a low shudder and he’s pretty sure he’s standing two hands away from the end of his career, maybe even the end of his life.

A barely audible moan falls from his mouth. He’s still frozen, though, just staring at the space the driver’s supposed to be, but he can’t tell if the driver’s there, because the headlights are too bright.

“Jesus christ, _Isaac_ —” And _Stiles_ is suddenly there, tugging him out of the way of the car, face a rictus of terror. His skin is scary-pale and he spits “watch where you’re fucking going” with so much venom Isaac actually draws away from him a little, eyes still comically round with shock and fixed on the place where the driver’s supposed to be.

He hears someone yell ‘fuck off’ and then there’s the squeal of rubber on asphalt, but he doesn’t really hear it. Doesn’t really even notice the absence of car and bright halogen for a few seconds. Just stares.

Something’s touching his face and he draws back automatically, lip curling in disgust and fear, but the moment he registers the hurt in Stiles’s eyes he snaps the fuck out of it. “Shit—shit—I’m sorry—holy shit—here, here—” He picks up Stiles’s hand and presses it to his face, only now realizing he’s shaking so hard it looks like the world’s vibrating. He hopes that makes it better, makes Stiles look less pained.

“Isaac…” Stiles steps forward and wraps his other arm around Isaac’s waist and Isaac sort of hugs him back but he suddenly feels like all his limbs are made of water and he’s about to just trickle away. His blood’s pounding in his ears. “Holy fuck, Isaac, are you okay?”

Isaac nods, because he knows Stiles doesn’t mean ‘are you alright’ he means ‘are you _hurt_ ’ and he’s not hurt, his body’s safe, his tool is safe. He would thank a god if he believed in any.

“C’mon, c’mon, come sit down.”

“No.”

Stiles pulls away and looks at Isaac worriedly. “What do you mean, ‘ _no_ ’, dude?”

“Does this place have practice rooms?” Isaac needs to let this out, he feels like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin or fucking _scream_.

“Isaac, you’re fucking freezing, just come on and get in the car—”

“ _Stiles_ _does this place have fucking practice rooms or not?!_ ” He’s not _quite_ screaming but he’s really fucking close. Stiles steps away from him and he feels bad but he understands, he’ll just go for a run instead, a nice long run to clear his head and get it _out_ , he still needs to talk to Stiles but he can do that later—

“ _Isaac_!” Now _that’s_ a scream, and it’s half-desperate. He turns automatically at that distress, but presses his back against a Subaru and keeps an eye on the lights, just in case. He can’t remember taking off, but he assumes he did, because he’s about fifteen feet away from Stiles and his air is only coming in little gusts. He thinks dully that he’s become a cloud factory. He hears dull clacking, like good shoes on pavement, and then Stiles is beside him, car keys dangling in his hand. He’s completely breathless, and it takes him a moment to get enough of the frozen air to speak. He reaches for Isaac’s hand and Isaac gives it. His hands are cold anyway. They hurt. “Had to— _shit_ —had to turn my car off—will a blackbox work?”

Isaac nods once, firmly. He’s not shaking as hard, but he’s not exactly relaxed. He won’t be until he reassures himself that every piece of his tool is in perfect working order, that every movement is still the same and every leap is just as high, that his body still obeys him.

Stiles leads him into the building wordlessly, but all the things he doesn’t say and all the questions he doesn’t ask make Isaac even more afraid.

He tastes blood. He's bit a long sliver of scar tissue off the inside of his cheek, and tugged, and he actually ripped into tender skin.

It doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is  _movement_.


	6. This Man Could Be My Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isaac is a little incoherent, and then he makes Stiles a _lot_ incoherent, and then they both get incoherent as fuck together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to say that Shannon is fucking amazing and her work is amazing and the only reason I haven't dedicated _all the things_ to her beforehand was because I never felt like anything was good enough to do so and well this may not be but it's sure not _bad_. Love you and your work, lady!

Well, the night _had_ been going pretty okay before Isaac almost got hit by a car. Holy fuck.

It wouldn't’ve been that big a deal, but Stiles'd been pretty sure it wasn’t going to stop and he’d been out of the car by then, sprinting, but he hadn’t made it and _wouldn’t’ve_ made it, that was the biggest part, the worst part, the scariest part holy fucking shit Isaac could’ve just _died_ , and him being a dancer, any kind of bodily injury would’ve been fucking terrible, holy _shit_.

He’s still too stunned and horrified to even speak anymore as he closes the blackbox door behind him. He’d been pretty sure he wasn’t going to catch Isaac, and then to have Isaac totally freak out on him…

He understands, but it doesn’t exactly help calm him down.

He eyes the room warily, because it’s usually a goddamn mess after auditions, people fuck around in here and practice like crazy, but the curtain along one wall that covers the mirror is drawn back, all the black-painted props (fifteen or so easily movable hollow and bottomless black boxes, two small round tables) are stacked neatly in the front corner by the windows and across from the door, and yes, all the windows are curtained. Isaac sits down dead center of the black-painted floor and starts taking off his shoes. “You don’t have to stay. Home’s not that far.”

Stiles gropes around for all of five seconds to find his voice. It feels like it takes five years. “Pssh. Fuck that. I’m here however long you are. _Goddamn_ I thought I was gonna piss myself. Holy fuck I would’ve killed that guy. I would have literally killed him. Holy shit. Holy _shit_.” It’s then that he realizes he’s shaking, just barely, and runs a hand through his hair, trying to self-comfort a little. “Are you okay?”

Isaac finishes off his other shoe and peels both of them off his feet at the same time. Then he takes his socks off and starts digging in his messenger bag. “Don’t know yet. Have to check.”

Stiles doesn’t understand, but then Isaac stands and gathers all his things, drops them on one of the small tables, and tugs out an iPod Classic with a clip on the back of it and earbuds dangling. Stiles’s eyes flicker quickly from it to Isaac’s hands, which are now trying to undo his tie and failing miserably.

Stiles walks over and stills his hands, which are still way too cold. He gets it now. Isaac needs to dance, to double-check. It makes sense. Like the time Scott broke his hand in high school and had to play his guitar almost non-stop for nearly six hours before he could be convinced that he still knew how. Isaac starts to ask what he’s doing but Stiles just shakes his head.

“My hands aren’t made of ice. Here.” He undoes Isaac’s tie slowly and carefully, watching him shudder in segments, watching his nostrils flare and then relax but way the hell too fast. Isaac puts an earbud in and then does the long practiced unlock and click, and Stiles sees real panic flare in his eyes again. “What is it?”

Isaac’s still clicking restlessly, but Stiles leans over and sees what he’s already figured. “It’s dead, Isaac.” He finally gets the goddamn knot undone and slides the tie off Isaac. He quickly drapes it over his own shoulders and then undoes the top two buttons of Isaac’s button down. He’s pretty sure it’s made of linen, and the crisp fabric feels good under his fingers. Still cold, though.

“Stiles.” Isaac is gulping quickly, like he’s gagging, and then he’s whispering and Stiles has to strain to hear him. “Do you have music?”

Stiles smiles, lets his eyes go half-lidded even though he’s scared shitless right now. “Sure I do. All the time. What do you want to hear?”

“Anything. Anything. Anything. Give me ten minutes. I—I’m sorry.”

Stiles just shakes his head. Who the fuck knew how _he’d_ be reacting if he’d just almost gotten turned into roadkill. “It’s fine. As long as you need, Isaac.” He picks up Isaac’s stuff and sits over into the corner with it, shifts around to get comfortable, and takes a deep breath.

“Starting off with “Don’t Do Sadness”. That okay?”

Isaac nods curtly and centers himself, staring piercingly at his own reflection in the mirror. The look he gives himself doesn’t seem vain to Stiles.

It only appears calculating.

Stiles opens his mouth and sings, and then Isaac moves.

 

It actually takes closer to thirty minutes, and he’s moved into Beatles songs. He’s halfway through “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” (yes, yes, because he does) when Isaac stops dead and nods once, head down, sweat dripping off the end of his nose, limbs trembling. Stiles’d _seen_ him pushing, probably way harder than usual, completely throwing himself into it, and it’d been a struggle to keep singing instead of sitting gape-mouthed and watching.

He can’t decide if it'd looked more like Isaac was tearing himself apart or piecing himself back together.

Isaac is panting a little, the damp of his body making a large triangle on his back, dark circles under his arms. “Let’s go.” Then he does, he honestly just fucking walks out.

Stiles has pins and needles in his legs and his back is fucking killing him but he still gets up and follows, _fast_ ,  scraping Isaac’s stuff into his arms, including his shoes, calling out and shutting off the lights as he exits and makes himself run. “ _Isaac_ —”

Isaac’s bent over the water fountain a little ways down the hall, ass in the air and guzzling like he’s dying of thirst. Which he probably is. He straightens up, trembling all over, and gives Stiles a frank look that Stiles finds at once entrancing and terrifying. _This is Isaac laid bare._ “Hey. Try not to yell. Please.”

Okay, maybe not. “Okay. Try not to fucking walk off without saying anything. Please.”

Isaac nods in that sharp, short way again and goes back to the water.

 

Ten minutes later they’re in the car, on the way to Isaac’s dorm, and Stiles managed to get Isaac to sit down and put his shoes on before they left the building, and neither of them’ve said a word for at least three minutes. It’s cold enough that Stiles is shuddering even with the heater on. Finally, just to break the fucking tension, Stiles says, “So I’m guessing that’s a ‘no’ for Thanksgiving break.” He laughs a little, _feeling_ strained as fuck but not sounding it.

Isaac says nothing, and he looks over, and that’s when he realizes Isaac’s fallen asleep against the window with his body bunched into itself and an arm wrapped around his seatbelt, keeping it off his neck.

Stiles looks back at the road with a sigh and lets his hand move from the gearshift to Isaac’s thigh, the only part of Isaac he can reach. He pats it companionably and goes back to driving. The outpouring of auditioners is over, he knows the campus roads like the back of his hand, and he has his headlights on ‘high’, but it’s still dark, and he never knows if a dancer’s gonna pop out of the bushes and leap in front of his car like a goddamn deer.

The thought makes him laugh. Oh, black humor, ever his friend.

 

It actually really scares Stiles, the way Isaac comes awake. He thrusts his arms out, or attempts to, but they’re wrapped in the seatbelt and one of his elbows bangs against the door and makes a metallic ‘clang’. It sounds like it hurts.

Isaac bolts up, eyes open huge and glazed and fucking _terrified_ , and then he makes the loudest noise Stiles’s ever heard out of his mouth. It sounds like something in his throat _breaks_ , it’s so high and hoarse, more of an unapologetic scream than anything else.

He would give absolutely anything not to hear it again as long as he lives.

He remembers about the not yelling though, he’s grateful for that. “Isaac, Isaac, Isaac, we’re here—we’re home. Whitehall. Home. Your home. You are home. We’re here, okay? Isaac? Isaac, are you there?” It’s a fucking weird question, yeah, weird beyond reason, but Isaac is white as a fucking sheet _and it doesn’t look like he’s here_ so yeah, it’s a good one.

Isaac actually doesn’t respond, just stares straight ahead and pants, and Stiles reaches over and unbuckles him, then unbuckles himself, gets out, and goes around to Isaac’s side. He opens the door and for a few seconds nothing happens and he’s afraid Isaac’s gone catatonic or something, about three dozen different _horrible_ possibilities stream through his head and he’s getting ready to get back in and drive them to the student health center and then Isaac twitches and blinks a little and untangles his arm.

“Sorry.” Isaac’s voice is _wrecked_. Goddamn. Sounds like he’s been gargling nails. Usually it takes Stiles a solid month of shows to do that.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh _fuck_ —

Isaac is crying. _That’s_ why he sounds kind of like he’s dying. Holy shit.

Stiles doesn’t care that he’s so cold he feels like he’s about to puke anymore. He touches Isaac’s shoulder gently, wishing there was a handbook for this kind of thing, jesus christ. “It’s okay. Forgiven. Scared the hell out of me, but forgiven. Gimme your hand.”

 

Then it’s forty minutes later and Stiles is fading out a little. Isaac’s bed is probably the most comfortable one _ever_ and he’s officially dozing with a copy of _Desperation_ (which his has read precisely six sentences of) open on his chest when Isaac comes back into the room with his dirty clothes in his arms, wearing red flannel pajamas and looking a little more like himself, if soggier that usual. His towel’s around his shoulders and his eyes look like they’re sunken into his head, but at least the water on his face can be easily traced to his hair. He opens the closet and Stiles gets sight of a canvas hamper before the clothes are gone and Isaac’s closed it again. Stiles replaces the book where he found it—on Isaac’s bookshelf, on top of a couple textbooks—and waves at him. “Hey. Feeling better?”

Isaac nods and sits down heavily on the edge of the bed. “Yeah. Sorry. I…that was a little dramatic.”

Stiles snorts. “Yeah, no, you almost got hit by a car. _That_ was the dramatic part of the evening, thank you. I’m pretty sure your reaction was standard for a dancer. I probably would’ve pissed myself.”

Isaac’s body moves like water sideways and his head comes to rest on Stiles’s stomach. The chill damp soaks through his Purple Shirt of Sex nearly instantly, and he shivers, but drags his fingers into Isaac’s hair anyway and doesn’t worry about the stain or lack thereof. Does water stain silk? He took Costume Design too early in his college career to remember. Isaac mumbles something Stiles can’t hear.

“And Stacey, she was dramatic, but she always is. Better watch out, she thinks you’re hot. What’d you say?”

Isaac tilts his face up a little. His body is twisted to shit but he hasn’t moved to get comfortable yet, and Stiles decides to leave him be for the moment. “Said ‘you mentioned something about pissing yourself, I think’. Who’s Stacey?”

Stiles examines the lack of recognition in Isaac’s eyes. “You remember the waiter’s name fine but not the person we stood with for like five minutes at auditions?”

“You didn’t say her name then, I don’t think.” Stiles smiles and Isaac’s eyes slip closed, and Stiles feels bad for moving but he’s not letting Isaac sleep like that. He scoots over in the bed until his back is flush with the wall. Isaac doesn’t move with him and his head comes to rest slowly on the bed, and Stiles leaves his hand in Isaac’s hair.

“Gonna come up here?”

Isaac scoots the rest of the way up the bed, mostly just using his feet, and he still seems all tangled up even though he’s laying there straight as a board. He’s looking up at the phoenix as he speaks. “Will…will you stay over?”

Stiles smiles. “Definitely.” He starts to reach up towards the light but Isaac grabs his arm halfway through the motion and curls it firmly around himself.

“Light on. Please?”

Stiles’s eyebrows scrunch together and his mouth twists down, just barely. “Isaac, ‘s your room, you don’t have to ask me. Sure ‘lights on’. Whatever you want.” He runs his fingers through Isaac’s hair and then just his thumb and the heel of his hand over Isaac’s cheekbone. “Is making out a thing you would maybe be interested in?”

Isaac smiles at him and shifts over a little, facing him more fully. He slides his hand over the thin fabric of Stiles’s shirt, first on his sleeve, then down to his chest. Stiles’s heart trips up into his throat and the tiredness from the heat and comfort Isaac’s bed provides dissolves in his mouth like fading carbonation. Then Isaac’s hand finds the wet patch from his hair and he pauses. The smile falters a little. “You wanna borrow a shirt?” Isaac stands up and crosses to his closet before Stiles can respond.

Stiles wets his lips, and then says ‘no’, but it comes out as a whisper and there’s no fucking way Isaac heard him. “No, dude, it’s okay. Uh—but do you care if I take this off? Might get hot if I sleep in long sleeves.” And he could live with being half-naked in Isaac’s bed, too. Actually if he’s sleeping here, he should probably take his belt off, too. _He_ stands up as Isaac crosses back over, and Isaac looks at him worriedly.

“I—if you don’t borrow a shirt, what’re you gonna wear?”

Stiles blushes and smiles a little sheepishly at him, and then takes Isaac’s hand. It’s still a little cold. “If it’s—I mean, if you maybe don’t care I—uh, when I’m by myself I usually just sleep in my boxers.”

Isaac’s eyes are beautiful even when they’re trying to pop out of his head. He recovers himself, quickly, though, and blushes all the way under the collar of his too-large pajamas. His voice is small. “What if—what if Vernon comes in?”

Stiles shrugs. “Eh, he’s seen me in less.” Isaac looks up, eyes suddenly sharp and calculating and focused as hell. It makes Stiles’s stomach flop over, and not in a good way. “Uh. Because he’s in the Theatre department? And he does costumes a lot? And he has to—to do measurements sometimes? And sometimes boxers aren’t appropriate underwear so they make you wear jockeys?” He doesn’t know if that’s enough to put Isaac’s mind to rest, but if he has to actually come out and say ‘I have never slept with Vernon’ he’s pretty sure he’s going to die. And shit, now that he thinks about it— “Fuck, by the way, is he really Boyd? Like from-high-school-antisocial-as-hell Boyd?”

Something in Isaac’s whole face flinches, and he focuses in even _more_ if that’s possible. The hand in his seems suddenly stiff, and Stiles wants to drop it, but he probably shouldn’t. “If you call him that he’ll peel your skin off. He’s Vernon now. Boyd is dead.” Stiles’s face tries to twitch into a look of fear and his very light dinner flutters in his throat, but he just blinks a few times. _Don’t break_ flutters through his head for some goddamn reason—it’s not like he’s even _in_ character right now. Isaac nods sharply, as if Stiles made any indication that he was okay with that. “We—I don’t know how high school was for you, Stiles, but it was bad for us. We don’t talk about it. We try really hard to forget it happened. It…it wasn’t a good time. For any of us.”

Stiles blinks again. “‘Any of us’ sounds like more than two people, Isaac. Am I looking over somebody _else_?”

Isaac gives him a hard look that tightens iron bands around his chest. “Yeah. Erica. Erica Reyes. The girl with the red lipstick tonight? My friend?”

Stiles brings a hand up to his head. He feels like he’s been punched in the face. “Holy fuck, seriously? That was…what the _fuck_? How do you people manage to look so _different_?” If he sounds exasperated, it’s because he is.Why didn’t _he_ get a transformative graduation? Did he have to actually _despise_ high school? Because he found the entire experience mediocre at best, both in terms of actual events and in terms of torture. Maybe that’s why he only filled out and got a little more muscular instead of becoming a whole new fucking _person_.

Isaac’s mouth curls up at the edges, but all at once he looks mean. “Because we _are_ , Stiles. We’re not those people anymore. I’m not fucking invisible, Boyd’s not feared for no good goddamn reason, and Erica…we’re different.”

Stiles eyes widen in surprise, and not just because Isaac just pretty much stated his exact thoughts. “Erica’s seizures quit?” Yeah, he’s a terrible person, but all he remembers about Erica is that. And all he remembers about Boyd is that he was into WoW. Alliance, not Horde. Stiles’d been really disappointed.

If he’d been Horde they maybe could’ve been friends.

Isaac gives him a hard glare that lets him know it’s none of his business, none whatsoever, and if he keeps asking questions like that he’s gonna be sleeping in his _own_ goddamn bed tonight, and as much as he needs the rest more than the makeouts if he’s gonna start a ten hour drive in the morning, he really fucking wants the makeouts.

And Isaac asked him to stay, so Isaac maybe needs him a little, which is a good thing for Stiles. He likes feeling necessary. It's uncommon.

If that 'there are no small parts, only small actors' horshit his teachers feed him is true, then Stiles guesses he's a small actor.

Stiles raises his hands, palms up and facing Isaac. “Okay, okay, I get it. I don’t get to ask that question. That is a shitty question to ask and none of my business. I’m sorry.” Isaac seems relieved and a little of the _sharpness_ goes out of his face. Stiles’s chest lightens. “Okay. So we were talking about if it’s okay for me to sleep in my boxers. That in no way means you’re required to, and I don’t have to if you don’t want me to. As I’ve demonstrated, I _can_ sleep in clothes.” He steps forward and looks at the patch of skin on Isaac’s chest revealed by his overlarge shirt, a spot he’d really like to get under his mouth.

Isaac’s hands come to rest on his shoulders and Stiles thinks again how good they feel on him over the silk. Then they slide down to his chest, and Isaac’s fingers come to rest on either side of his first button. He looks into Isaac’s face—can’t seem to help it—and it’s gone shy and quiet but all at once _excited_ and, because he’s Stiles and he has to try to ruin everything, he whispers, “You sure?”

Isaac’s eyebrows quirk up. “You mind?”

Stiles shakes his head, eyes widening as Isaac’s tongue slips over his own bottom lip. Then he’s being unbuttoned with care and precision, Isaac stopping every now and then to feel at the fabric of his shirt and just _stare_ , getting steadily lower and Stiles is having some _real_ trouble not making this sexual, especially when the back of Isaac’s hand brushes against the strip of skin at about the point where his stomach stops being stomach and starts being crotch. He swallows nervously and his voice comes out a little higher than he’d like to think about. “Really taking your time, huh?” He feels the blood pulse and flutter in his head, and he thinks he might be choking on it, on anticipation and nervousness.

“Your skin is so _smooth_.” Isaac undoes the last button, sounding awed, and yeah, he’s grown pretty much out of the acne unless he gets distracted and forgets to shower (which usually only happens during show week, and only if Scott starts forgetting, too, which he doesn’t much because Allison won’t let him), but he doesn’t get why that’d make Isaac sound like he’s about to start drooling or fall over or something. “Can I…” Isaac trails off, fingers just above the hemline of Stiles’s slacks, and Stiles nods even though he’s not sure what exactly Isaac is asking, because he wants those fingers on his skin, he wants those _hands_ , cold though they may be.

And yeah, he jumps a little when Isaac settles both palms over his lower stomach, on either side of his navel. He looks down and sees purple silk and long, slightly-swollen, big knuckled fingers pressing just barely to the inside of his hip bones, sees skin just a shade darker than his own, not including the light purplish tinge to them. His eyes trace the lines their skin makes together, heart throbbing in his throat.

And then Isaac starts to carefully slide his hands up.

Stiles knows the basic principles of manscaping, and he’s not as vehement about it as Scott is but he’s grateful he’s had a once-over within the last week—the only hair on his torso is his happy trail, and Isaac doesn’t touch that. Not that Stiles doesn’t want him to, not at _all_ , he’s just glad that he’s not a fuzzy man-beast at the moment, because apparently Isaac likes smooth skin. He _could_ be a fuzzy man-beast, if Isaac wanted him to be—well, not that fuzzy, he still doesn’t grow more than excessive peach fuzz except for weird nipple patches and a few stray hairs on his back—but he’d try at least. He makes a note to send a thank-you card to Allison—she was the one who made him the appointments, _she’s_ probably the only reason he’s silky-smooth—

Yeah, he’s not making sense. His thoughts are not making sense. Isaac steals his coherency all the _goddamn_ time and it is absolutely not fair.

Isaac’s hands have paused on their slow crawl under his clothes; they’re on his collarbone now, and Isaac’s feeling along it, barely pressing his fingers against the bone. Stiles looks up into his face and is immediately enraptured because _Isaac_ is. Isaac’s eyes are light and happy and there’s a small smile playing on his lips and Stiles is infinitely grateful that the darkness from before has departed but holy jesus if Isaac doesn’t stop touching him like he’s some precious delicate impossible creation Stiles’s knees are going to buckle and he’s sure Isaac has fast enough resources to keep him from busting his ass, but he’s not sure if Isaac’ll be able to _utilize_ them staring like he is.

Which is really too flattering to think about, Stiles needs to stop thinking about that.

Needs to stop thinking in general really.

“What’s this from?” Isaac’s fingers skate over an ancient scar on his right shoulder, small, but thick. Isaac’s smile has faltered a little.

“Oh, I fell off a swing when I was like ten. There was a broken bottle in the sand or something.”

Isaac’s fingers still on his neck, right over his pulse point, like Isaac’s checking his heartbeat or something.

Stiles blushes. “Um…are you gonna…I mean…shirt…off?” It’s not the most eloquent he’s ever been in his life, but he has to say _something_ and his tongue is lying thick and heavy in the bottom of his mouth, so single-syllable words are probably the only safe ones right now.

The smile Isaac gives him is suddenly dark and wicked and and his hands _smooth_ the shirt off Stiles’s body, fingers skating all the way down his arms. Stiles is blotchy red and he tries to swallow and the air and saliva in his mouth goes down with a thick and obvious squelching noise. Holy shit.

Initially, Isaac’s gaze on him is clinical, flickering all over his skin, and Stiles is immediately uncomfortable. His body is _okay_ , but it’s not fucking sculpted perfection—he’s not gonna measure up to Isaac’s standards. Derek would probably hit the mark, but Stiles just doesn’t care enough to. He worked out most of his own body issues and bulked up enough to be sure he could take care of himself, and then he fell off the wagon of fitness and into an Arby’s wrapper. He keeps up with his workouts, but he’s never gonna jog two miles a day and he eats what he wants—no heart problems like his dad, he’s allowed to.

He watches Isaac’s face, and Isaac just _stares_ at him for god knows how long, and then Isaac’s looking at him again and his eyes aren’t clinical anymore. His pupils are blown, his lips are barely parted, and he looks too kissable not to _kiss_ , so Stiles decides he ought to.

“Jesus, Isaac…” He lets his hand come up to rest on Isaacs’s throat, just on the side, with his thumb under Isaac’s chin, and he pulls Isaac flush with him by the waist with his other arm. Isaac’s hands fist against his chest, his _bare_ chest, and then their mouths touch and their lips part and their tongues start dancing.

Usually, when Stiles kisses, it’s practiced and thoughtful and admittedly a little dry for that fact, but Isaac shakes that out of him, makes him just…just _go_ , because with Isaac it’s pretty much just about getting as much contact with his mouth as he possibly, possibly can, which is new. And another thing—Isaac refuses to sit there and take the pleasure, he gives as much as he can back, and Stiles takes all of it, everything he can.

Isaac groans low into his mouth and Stiles sucks in a sharp little breath before deepening the kiss, moaning totally in earnest, now pretty much clutching Isaac to him and there is a bed that they could totally be using, why the fuck aren’t they in bed right now?

He starts moving towards the bed and their lips come apart with a smack that would be funny if immediately afterward the distance was closed and they were making some more gross kissing noises, but when he moves towards Isaac again, Isaac sways back a little. Doesn’t back up with his feet, no, just moves his torso backward, just barely.

Stiles would be freaking the fuck out a little if Isaac wasn’t smiling. “What’s up?” Yeah, okay, his voice just came out smoky and dark instead of pitchy and nervous, he’s good.

“Don’t you want me to take your pants off?” Isaac smirks and yeah, fuck yeah, that is probably the most wickedly sexy thing he’s ever seen in his life, he doesn’t give a shit if his screenwriting teacher doesn’t let them use that word because real people don’t ‘smirk’, _Isaac_ smirks, and it makes Stiles want to rub his whole goddamn body against the man.

But of course his eyes just widen and his voice comes out a little squeak instead of that sexy low thing, goddamn, there should be a ban on surprising him, Isaac should quit doing that. “Uh yeah sure a lot actually that would be good—”

His words are lost in an inhale. Isaac has his fingers hooked into Stiles’s belt, and he’s fiddling with it, and holy shit he’s unbuckling it, but he’s taking his time and feeling the leather and he can’t seem to stop staring at Stiles’s bare chest okay yeah Stiles is starting to get over being embarrassed and leaning into truly and purely _interested_ now. Then Isaac hangs the belt off the end of his bed and goes for Stiles’s button and yeah, okay, interested is probably a bad word, maybe ‘so invested in this he feels like he’s gonna fucking freak out if it doesn’t happen’ is a better way to put it, and despite the fact that Isaac’s hands look a combination of delicate and desperate and rugged, he snags the little silver buttonhook that keeps his button from coming undone (Stiles uses _that_ trick on all his pants and thank you Costume Design for something that was actually useful) and can’t get it unsnagged, and after a moment in which Stiles is totally sure Isaac is about to die because there’s too much blood in his face for him to do anything else, the catch comes free and Stiles’s pants rumple down his legs and he’s oh god seriously why—

He’s wearing his lucky Iron Man boxers, the pair he only puts on when he wants to feel cocky as shit. And he does not feel cocky as shit right now. Oh god.

He steps out of his pants and kicks them over towards the edge of the bed a little ways, and when he looks back at Isaac, his right hand is twitching, just barely, and he doesn’t look happy.

“Um—Isaac? Did I—is something wr—do I need to put my pants back on?” Does Isaac hate Iron Man or something? Fuck, Stiles wants Isaac to look happy. Stiles wants Isaac to look strung out on him, actually, that would be good, that would be _awesome_ , he wants Isaac to look drunk off the blood running under his skin, wants Isaac writhing beneath him on top of him _somewhere_ , wants to see what Isaac looks like _hot_ , like burning alive inside begging for it need you right this fucking instant—

“No. Can you hand them to me though, please?”

Stiles knows he looks like he’s been brained, but what the fuck? What does Isaac want his _clothes_ for? But whatever, sure, yeah, if Isaac asked him to jump on the bed right now, if Isaac asked him to get a dolphin diving through a Chevy window tattooed on his ass, if Isaac asked him to try and fucking fly out of this fourth-story window he’d do it. Whatever.

He snatches up his pants and his shirt and holds them out, arms fully extended, feeling like a very small child even though he’s a very sizable man.

Isaac smiles at him and blushes, then says “You can just put them down on the bed,” so Stiles does that, and then he puts _himself_ down on the bed, sitting almost primly and feeling younger by the minute.

He watches Isaac cross to the closet and open it, watches him pull out a green plastic hanger and then a blue one, and then he looks at Stiles again and he smiles and Stiles feels less young and more…domestic. Already. Huh. “Do you want me to hang ‘em up _in_ the closet or on the handle?”

Stiles cocks his head to the side, a disbelieving but _huge_ grin starting up on his face and just _going_. “I—really? I—pants inside, shirt out so it can dry?”

Isaac grins right back at him. Once he hangs up Stiles’s pants, he just stands there looking at them for a minute. When he speaks his voice is so soft Stiles can pretend he didn’t hear it, if he wants. “I like seeing our clothes together.”

Stiles feels his whole scalp tingle and his smile soothes down, until it’s not so enormous but just as bright. His stomach flutters but in a good way this time, in a ‘bag full of winged insects’ way, and he crosses his fingers and _hopes_ that Isaac’s coming home with him.

He’s having stupid thoughts for two and a half weeks. _Stupid_ thoughts. Dog thoughts. Apartment thoughts.

 _Commitment_ thoughts. If he opened his mouth and let this shit spill out Isaac’d have him out on his ass so fast it’d make his head spin.

So he pretends he doesn’t hear anything.

Isaac closes the closet, hangs up his shirt, and then slowly walks over to Stiles. He puts both his hands on Stiles’s shoulders and Stiles feels him tracing that jagged little former-cut like he can smooth it away. Stiles puts his hands on Isaac’s hips and tugs, and then Stiles has a lap full of Isaac and that is exactly what he fucking wants.

He cradles Isaac around the waist and draws Isaac’s long, beautiful, graceful, _inconvenient-ass_ legs onto the bed, and then his mouth is on Isaac’s mouth and Isaac’s tongue is slipping against his and he’s completely, utterly, and perfectly lost.

 

They’re both on their sides, Isaac curled so tightly against him, leg hooked around Stiles’s waist and arms locked around his shoulders, it’s like they’re sharing a skin even though Isaac still has his clothes on, and Isaac is hard and Stiles can _feel_ it and Stiles is on the same page, no doubt, no question, yes yes please, yes, oh god yes. He’s pretty sure he’s whined that a couple times and he _knows_ Isaac has, because he couldn’t forget that, the sweet way it sounds, like he’s saying ‘please’ no matter what words’re really coming out of his mouth, holy shit. And the _way_ they sound. Like Stiles is coaxing them out of him. It’s perfect.

His brain has no part whatsoever in what happens next. His hand moves from Isaac’s ass to the planes of his back, and his breath stutters in his chest because _that_ skin is warm and smooth and sexy as hell—

Then he goes up a little farther and his fingers bump against and over a thick knotted line that can only be a scar. He follows it with his fingers, not because he has any conscious desire to trace it but because that’s what he _does_ , he touches the edge of something and then he goes and goes and goes and then Isaac is stilling against him and Stiles can feel his own blood rush and pound and _struggle_ because jesus fucking christ was Isaac in a car accident or something? What _happened_ to him, for him to be this scarred up? Was he mauled by a goddamn moutain lion?

He’s felt a steady and startling arrangement of whelped skin as he kept going up, and he stops with hand almost to Isaac’s shoulder blades…but not because he hit the end of that scar, no, he’s pretty sure it continues over onto Isaac’s stomach, _jesus christ what the fuck_ did _that to him?_ , because he feels Isaac shudder and he's not kissing Isaac anymore and Isaac isn't kissing him, either, and it's just fucking freaking him out because their mouths are just pressed together and it's _weird._

He pulls away and looks at Isaac’s face, wincing a little, moving his hand back down to the clear patch of Isaac’s back. He can feel how tense Isaac is around him, and Isaac’s eyes are squeezed shut, and Isaac is very clearly trying to imagine he's abso-fucking-lutely anywhere else. “Hey. I’m sorry I didn’t ask. I should’ve asked. Are you okay?” He has about eighty-dozen questions he wants to ask, but ‘are you okay’ is the most important one, the one that really matters, the only one he’s going to ask and the only one he needs answered.

A broken-sounding sigh oozes out of Isaac’s mouth, and he tilts his head into the pillow, digs between Stiles’s face and the soft jersey of his pillowcase. Then there’s a whisper of words. “Are you?”

Is Isaac only freaking out because he thinks _Stiles_ is? Because Stiles kind of is, yeah, but he’s not turned off or anything, he’s pretty much just worried and curious and half-terrified he overstepped. There is no ‘being grossed out’ happening here, none at _all_. “Hey, hey, _I’m_ fine. As long as you are, babe.” Isaac doesn’t move his face so Stiles backs up and puts his hand on Isaac’s face and pushes, just barely. Isaac’s eyes are still closed. He kisses Isaac’s cheek, then his nose, his chin, his forehead, his eyelid, but he knows it’s not enough. These are all the easy places to kiss, the easy things to love. He wants to reassure Isaac, and he thinks he knows how, but he doesn’t know if Isaac’ll let him, if Isaac even _wants_ him to.

But he wants to try, at least. He plucks at Isaac’s flannel-clad shoulder and then runs his hand up and down Isaac’s arm slowly, and after a few minutes of silence (that it costs Stiles more than he can fathom to hold), Isaac opens his eyes. He doesn’t look devastated or broken inside or anything that would freak Stiles out. He just looks confused.

Stiles can work with confused.

“So, babe?” Isaac bites his bottom lip

“Yeah?”

Isaac looks at him seriously and Stiles zeros in, tries to be ready for whatever heavy shit is about to come flying his way. “No. I mean—you’re calling me ‘babe’ now. That’s happening?” All at once Stiles is brilliant bright red. ‘TOO EARLY FOR PET NAMES’ flashes through his brain in ten-foot-tall letters and Isaac is just barely starting to smile so maybe it’s okay? “Did you not realize you were doing it?”

“Uh. Nuh-uh. I didn’t. I—are—is that okay? Sorry. Sorry. I keep not asking about shit I should ask about, I’m sorry.”

Isaac is definitely smiling. “Stiles, it’s okay. I just—it’s fine. I didn’t wanna freak you out, is all. Don’t be freaked out. Please. Are you freaked out?”

Stiles tries his best to shake the embarrassment and feeling of idiocy off and smiles back at Isaac.

It feels genuine.

“Well, you asked me so nicely not to be…” He presses forward again and his mouth goes to Isaac’s, tongue flickering against his mouth, and then it opens and they’re kissing like they _mean_ it again, like they’re trying to drink the other person in and keep them and hold them forever—at least that’s what it feels like to him, Isaac has been startlingly perfect so far but Stiles hasn’t deluded himself into thinking that Isaac is also delusional about this and waxing poetic inside _his_ head.

He drips wet kisses down Isaac’s neck and then kisses all over it, swiping his tongue over a few places with a smile on his lips because Isaac keeps gasping and sighing and it’s almost perfect.

He nibbles on Isaac’s ear for a little while, circling his tongue over the soft delicate flesh because it makes Isaac squirm against him and that’s just _hot as hell_. And then he asks it—whispers it, really.

“Isaac, can I take your shirt off?”

Isaac goes very, very, insanely terrifyingly still.

And then he reaches over and turns off the light. Stiles catches the set of his mouth before they’re plunged in what seems like impenetrable darkness—a firm, hard, determined line.

Stiels can't tell if that bodes well or not. It could go either way, really.

Then Isaac places Stiles’s hands on either side of _his_ first button, and, because Stiles will _always_ try to ruin everything, he asks, and it’s barely a whisper. “You sure?”

And Isaac gives that same cocky answer, but it doesn’t sound offhand or douche-y in a sexy way, just tremulous and worried. “You mind?”

And of course, Stiles doesn’t.

Their lips meet again and it’s more desperate and just a little dirty, Stiles’s hips bucking up (kind of awkwardly, what with the being-on-his-side and all) and Isaac whimpering and then groaning low, Stiles making all _kinds_ of embarrassing moaning noises, and then Isaac’s shirt is off and on the floor somewhere and he chokes out “I-I— _Isaac_ —can I—I wanna kiss you, I wanna kiss you all over, can I?” It’s the most juvenile way he’s ever asked that question, jesus christ, what the fuck is he, sixteen years old?

Isaac whimpers and Stiles’s eyes haven’t adjusted to the yellow-orange campus lights well enough to actually see what his face is doing, if he’s gonna say yes or not, and then he hears a whispered “please” and all of his nerve endings flick on at once.

God Isaac makes him _crazy_. He licks down Isaac’s neck, kissing and gently sucking, until he gets to that beautiful collar bone and he licks along it, eyes fluttering back in his head. He kisses and sucks and moves all over the goddamn place, and at one point his lips find a scar (that he actually fucking notices, who knows how many there actually are, all he knew was lips+Isaac's skin=happy Stiles), just below Isaac’s left nipple.

Isaac’s hands fist in the sheets and Stiles can feel him trembling, just barely, so he does the only thing he can do.

He plants a kiss right in the middle of it, and then kisses all the way down it until it’s just skin again and he goes back to that opened-mouth licking thing that has Isaac panting and and whimpering just barely through closed lips, like he’s _afraid_ to make noise.

Stiles isn’t gonna call him on it, though—he has a warm writhing body under him that _clearly_ wants to be there, he’s not calling anything but Isaac’s name, hopefully, later, if he keeps letting it build.

He wants to keep letting it build.

He licks up the center of Isaac’s stomach back to his mouth and then they’re fused together at the lips again, Isaac’s hands roaming all over him and Stiles following suit, forcing himself not to stay within the lines of Isaac’s scars, because they don’t matter and they’re not the important thing here.

The important thing here is figuring out if he’s gonna let this tip over in to ‘sex’ territory, because god knows he’s thinking about it and fuck if he’s ever gonna fall asleep with Isaac’s cock pressing into his thigh like it is.

He slips his fingers just inside the back of Isaac’s pajama pants and then his brain shorts out completely and he moans long and loud into Isaac’s mouth, feeling a delicious little shiver stutter through Isaac’s body (and cause Isaac to rut against his hip, that’s pretty good).

Isaac pulls back and Stiles can barely make out the glint of his eyes, he likes that, that’s fucking _awesome._ “What—what did I do that made you make that _noise_?” Isaac is panting, and he just whispered, and Stiles is so turned on it feels like he’s burning all over.

“Why do you wanna know, babe?”

Then he sees Isaac’s teeth flashing out at him and he groans low because Isaac is kissing his neck and it’s making him _shiver_ and try to grind up against _Isaac_ which is hard because they’ve somehow twisted themselves sideways again and Isaac is the only one who has any leverage, but Isaac feels or senses or understands what he’s trying to do anyway and when Isaac speaks again Stiles feels it in his entire body, including but not limited to his cock, because it’s in a low _voice_ not whisper and it could almost be a growl. “So I can make you do it again.”

Stiles gasps and then dips his fingers just barely lower, and he can feel the dip in Isaac’s spine where it becomes his tailbone now and he knows maybe a _millimeter_ lower is—but no if his brain goes there it’ll go fucking _everywhere_ and he just chokes out, “You’re not wearing underwear, Isaac.”

Isaac laughs, but it’s still quiet and it sounds _sexy as fuck_. “Mmm, I don’t unless I have to.” Stiles should not be blessed with this information. It _is_ a blessing yes, but holy fuck he’s replaying every moment ever with Isaac and somehow him not having underwear on in _any_ of them makes his cock twitch, makes his heart throb in his throat. Then Isaac is kissing at his neck again and he whispers, “You’re _only_ wearing underwear, Stiles…” and the ghosts his fingers over Stiles’s waistband and Stiles is a very strong man and he has lots of manly self-control but _fuck_ if he has that much.

“I—Isaac?”

Isaac barely picks his head up and Stiles feels more than hears his answering ‘mmm?’

“I…I want you to touch me. I wanna touch _you_. Can I—can we do that?”

Isaac actually chuckles a little bit, and kisses his mouth gently, and Stiles wonders if _this_ is the part where Isaac says ‘you’re completely fucking nuts we haven’t even been dating a month yet’.

It’s not.

“I want to, too. We both want it, Stiles. As far as I’m concerned, that means we can do that. Are we doing that?” His hand does that teasing ghosting thing again and Stiles _whines_.

“P- _please_ —” Nearly the moment the word left his lips Isaac’s long and now _warm_ fingers are slipping into his underwear, but they still feel cool on the hot skin of his cock, and he bites back a little scream and just hugs Isaac around the waist and _moans_ because _goddamn_. Isaac’s grip on him is firm but easy, and he’s rolling his fingers as he goes, making it into something approximating a massaging rhythm that’s making Stiles hiss through his teeth and breath in sharp little spurts. “ _Jesus_ —fucking— _oh my god_ , Isaac, how did— _god_ —” Stiles cuts his own self off on Isaac’s mouth, because god knows what the hell’s gonna come out of his mouth with Isaac working his cock like that, goddamn.

His whole body is trying to twitch his way into it like it had the first time he’d gotten a handjob in high school, but this is a _way_ more intense sensory experience because he _knows_ what another person’s hand on his dick feels like and it _does not feel like this_. This is intense and ridiculous and he should not be as close as he is right now, what the fucking fuck but he already feels his toes curling, and he grasps Isaac’s hand over his own, twitching and bucking into it, eyes rolling around the room, trying to get focused and just _not_ until he sees Isaac’s eyes glinting out at him in the dark. “O-oh— _oh my god_ , Isaac, if you don’t—if you don’t slow down I’m gonna— _fuck_ I’m gonna come just—please baby please I wanna feel it a little longer it feels so _good_ —”

He’s pretty sure Isaac is blinking at him slowly, and he slips his hand back up Isaac’s arm, heart throbbing high in his throat. “Not—not embarrassing or anything— _fuck_ —can I—can I touch _you_?”

“At—At the same— _yeah_. Please, Stiles. _Yeah_.” Like Isaac’s never experienced mutual masturbation before. Christ.

Stiles slowly drips his hand down Isaac’s stomach and yeah Isaac is going slower now, but it seems like every tug is still pulling him closer, if not as fast. The moment his hand slides under the waistband of Isaac’s pants he can _hear_ Isaac holding his breath, and he stops moving his hand even as he bucks into Isaac’s, eyes rolling back into his head as he calls out Isaac’s name.

Once he gets control of himself he says, very quietly and only slightly full (very full, okay, _very_ full, but at least he _tried_ ) of hitching moans, “Do you still want this?”

Isaac’s response is not ‘yes’ or ‘please’ it’s “ _oh god please touch me Stiles I need you to touch me_ ” and it’s not like after hearing that Stiles can last for any fucking length of time ever so he winds up coming part in his boxers and part in Isaac’s hand before he even gets a word out, jerking his upper body forward to bury his face in Isaac’s shoulder as he shakes it out, unable to make much more noise than a high, breathless whine. His hand fists in Isaac’s pants as he trembles, eyes rolling behind their lids and heart pounding _hard_ , scary-hard, but at least not erratic-hard.

“Jesus fucking oh my god holy hell _Isaac_ …” He kisses Isaac’s neck gently at first, then harder, sloppily almost, and Isaac is trembling _hard_ now and making these quiet keening noises that are taking Stiles apart even though there’s no fucking way he’s getting hard any time soon after that. Isaac scrapes Stiles's come off on the waistband of his boxers and it feels damp but not _bad_ and then his fingers are closing around Isaac’s cock, this piece of him so goddamn _hot_ in contrast—

And suddenly all Isaac is whispering is his name as Stiles starts up a slow but steady rhythm, still clutching Isaac about the waist, Isaac says it mixed with ‘fuck’ and ‘yes’ even through Stiles kissing him and he’s trembling more and still more and still harder until Stiles is afraid something is _wrong_ —

And then, with the tiniest woosh of air that sounds like it might’ve been trying to be ‘fuck’ or ‘god’, Stiles can’t tell which, Isaac comes, and a hell of a lot faster than Stiles had. His whole torso first jerks back, as if pushed, and then forward and against Stiles’s shoulder. Isaac clutches at him and whines high and just fucking _shakes_ , jesus _christ_ he shakes so _much_ , like all of his muscles are so strained and overtaxed they’re about to snap like too-tight bass strings and then—

Isaac melts. There’s no better word for it. He goes soft and still holds but doesn’t _grip_ , and he lets out the tiniest sigh, but it sounds good, it sounds right.

It sounds happy.

Stiles kisses Isaac’s cheek and tries to pull Isaac’s trick with the waistband of his pajama pants, but he misses a lot and he just wipes the excess on the hip of his own boxers before wrapping his other arm around Isaac and holds him as close as he can get, their torsos flush, his face against Isaac’s hair. Oh, but this is good. Oh but this was a good thing.

There’s no way Isaac’s staying here during break after _that_.

Stiles wants to do that a lot more, and that requires Isaac coming with him to his dad’s, and so it’s decided.

Isaac is coming with him. It's official.


	7. A Darkness Which Comes Without A Warning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things take a nose dive, and Isaac has no idea how to handle it, so he does what he can do.
> 
> What he can do is be very, very stupid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kittys_devil, your comments always make it so much easier for me to go on. I adore you. Thank you for reading my stuff with such an open heart.
> 
> This one was actually really difficult to get through, sorry it took me so long. Please be sure to check the updated tags before reading.

“What? Are you serious right now?” Stiles seems fucking _outraged_.

All at once Isaac finds himself honestly pissed for the first time in a month, maybe more. How many times does he have to say it? “I told you I didn’t know. I’m telling you now--I can’t go. I don’t _want_ to go. I’m not going. Holy fuck, Stiles, it’s not like I’m throwing off your schedule or something, shit.”

Stiles’s lips curl inward and he nods slowly three or four times before the motion cranks up and he’s just bobbing his head. It makes Isaac nervous. “No, yeah, you’re not throwing anything off, no, I just thought after last night you’d--you know, you’d wanna come with me, is all.”

Isaac finally can’t reign in his incredulity anymore. “Oh my _god_ , Stiles, you slept over--we gave each other hand jobs--nobody fucking _proposed_. We’ve been dating for less than a month, why the fuck do you think I’d be okay with meeting your dad?”

Isaac is actually totally okay with meeting Stiles’s dad. But he needs a reason, a reason that’ll piss Stiles off and make him just _leave it alone_. He can’t do this. He just fucking can’t.

It’s not Christmas, he doesn’t _have_ to, he’s not.

Stiles’s face crumples, just for a second, and Isaac thinks maybe he crossed a line, like he delivered a kick to the balls when he was only trying to lightly shove Stiles’s shoulders.

Then Stiles’s face settles into a careful expression of casualness and Isaac is sure he did.

Fuck.

“Sure, yeah, you’re right. Whatever.”

Fuck.

“No problem, you don’t wanna meet my _dying father_ , yeah, whatever.”

Instantly Isaac is horrified beyond reason. “Holy fuck, what--he’s _dying_? You didn’t tell me that, Stiles, _Stiles_ , I’m sorry--”

Stiles looks at him with a lazy disgust that is infuriating but also terrifying as he stands and shrugs his silk shirt on. For a moment Isaac can almost feel the fabric under his fingers, and he closes his eyes and tries to convince himself this isn’t happening. “No. Quit it with that shit. I was trying to use hyperbole to illustrate a point. Sorry it went over your head.”

Isaac’s eyes snap back open. _Well fuck you, too_.

Isaac might’ve just stepped on Stiles’s toes, but he’d done nothing that warranted that shit. “Hey, what the _fuck_? Who the hell uses hyperbole when the subject is their sick dad? What is _wrong_ with you?” He barely restrains himself from tacking ‘you asshole’ onto that, because he can kind of understand Stiles being disappointed but _holy shit_ this is overboard.

Stiles actually grins at him a little and opens the closet, tugging out a pair of pants that are most definitely not his, but Isaac doesn’t say anything, waits for him to notice, for this whole thing to turn hilarious or...or _something._ Not this petty snippy bullshit. Not this low-burning  anger that tastes like peach pits in the back of his throat--sour and poisonous because he doesn’t want to be _feeling_ it, not at Stiles.

“Apparently a lot of shit.” Stiles doesn’t notice that the pants he’s putting on are Isaac’s, even though he has to scrunch up the bottoms to be able to see his feet and the waist is tight as hell on him. Stiles is so fucking angry.

_Why_ the hell is Stiles so fucking angry? Did he really think that Isaac would just  _go_?

Did he really want him too that badly?

“Look, I’m sorry I’m not--”

“Fucking quit apologizing, would you? Just _stop_. I’m putting my shoes on and then I’m leaving and I’ll see you around, it’s not a big deal. It’s _whatever_. Just stop.”

Stiles sounds so goddamn bitter Isaac actually does.

The two minutes it takes Stiles to get his shoes on are the most awkward painful minutes Isaac’s had in _years_. The silence feels like it’s nibbling into his skin and gnawing on his bones, it’s making him feel physically ill, and if Stiles would just _look at him_ he’d say something, he’d say ‘I’m sorry’ again or ‘please don’t leave angry’ or maybe even ‘it has nothing to do with you, it’s not you, it’s me, it’s me that’s fucked up, Stiles, I swear I’d go if I could but I just can’t do it’--

But Stiles doesn’t look up. Not once. He chokes out a ‘bye’ as he gets to the door and doesn’t slam it behind him or anything dramatic--he closes it as he leaves, and the lock makes a tiny ‘click’, huge in this room with it’s single occupant.

It’s perhaps _newly_ _single_ single occupant. Shit. Was that--did they just--

Did they just break up?

Isaac is too stunned to be anything but amazed.

That was the quietest breakup he’s ever been a party to, if you could even call the other things breakups.

 

He doesn’t actually know.

That’s what’s fucking killing him.

He enters a half-dozen text messages before noon and deletes them all without sending them. They sound so pathetic. ‘Are we okay?’ ‘How’s the drive going?’ ‘Are you okay?’ ‘Please call me when you can. Thanks.’

He actually gets about half an email banged out, but then he realizes _what the fuck am I doing_ and he doesn’t have Stiles’s email address anyway.

Vernon arrives at one and gives him a thumbs-up before collapsing on the bed in his clothes and shoes and falling asleep. He still smells a little boozy.

Isaac is sad he missed it. Vernon drinking is a rarity, and a pleasure; he loosens up so damn much he could almost’ve never even _been_ to Beacon Hills.

 

By two, Isaac is getting desperate. He’s jittery and he can’t stop wandering around and if Stiles actually drove off immediately after leaving Whitehall, he’s about seven hours away right now and Isaac just doesn’t _like_ it.

Finally, at three, when Stiles is eight hours away, Isaac changes out of the sweatpants he’d switched into after Officially The Best Handjob Ever and into normal pants. Slacks, but a navy pair that’re a little more casual. He tugs on a white t-shirt and then a comfy maroon sweater, grabs a pair of dark blue socks and sits down. He only thinks about it for a minute before tugging on his blue pin-striped converse, recreated in the style of the great Tenth Doctor; they’re his favorite pair of shoes. He’s probably not going outside today, no need to keep his toes dry of the rain (or possibly sleet) threatening to fall. He drops his sweats in his hamper and then stares at it before he tugs it out of the closet. Then he looks up and pulls Stiles’s slacks off the hanger before grabbing his laundry detergent, fabric softener, and iron.

 

It is four-thirty, Stiles is nine and a half hours away, and Isaac is wondering if Stiles will text him when he gets there. Just so he knows his probably-still-but-quite-possibly-not boyfriend is okay.

He’s thinking ‘probably not’ as he puts the crease in Stiles’s now squeaky-clean slacks, eternally grateful that the laundry room of Whitehall has iron-safe folding tables (which’ve probably been fucked on by eight million or so people but whatever, iron-safe is the important thing here) and then his phone buzzes in his pocket. He jumps and almost sets the iron face-down on Stiles’s pants, which would just be _bad_. He manages to settle it hot-side _not on fabric_ before snatching his phone out of his pocket. He presses the ‘talk’ button and says hello, but it’s not a phone call.

It’s a message.

It only takes him about a third of second to read ‘Erica’ on his screen, but he still sighs his relief.

At least _one of them_ hasn’t gotten themselves splattered on the highway.

**Erica** : this number even still work

Instead of being a snarky dick (which he desperately wants to be), he taps her name, waits until her contact info shows up, and then presses call again. While he waits for her to pick up, he clicks his iron off. Stiles’s pants’d been the last thing. Well, besides Stiles’s boxers, but Isaac isn’t ironing those. He smiles a little thinking about it--ironing Iron Man boxers, but it fades off his face to be replaced with a look of contemplation.

Isaac blinks a few times. Stiles’s boxers.

Stiles’d walked out in Isaac’s pants, with a pair of Isaac’s boxers on underneath.

There’s a muffled click, and then “ _Wow_ , first call in over a year, dudebro, what’s wrong?”

Erica’s laughing a little.

“I think Stiles might’ve just broken up with me.”

She stops laughing, and he can hear her gulping. “Shit, I was kidding.”

“I know.”

“Well?” He can almost see her making that open-handed waving ‘hurry the fuck up’ gesture that is so goddamn _her_ it’s a little heartbreaking. Suddenly he feels close to tears.

He tells her almost everything.

He leaves out the handjobs of the night before, but not the car. He wants to tell her all the good (how patient Stiles was with him, how he seemed so freaking _concerned_ ) so when he gets to the probably-not-good she’ll understand why he’s freaking out so bad. She groans and whines and scoffs at all the right parts--all the parts that put her on _his_ side--but that’s not what he wants. A rare Isaac-monoluging thing is happening here. He doesn’t do this. He wouldn’t be doing this if he didn’t need her to _tell him what to do_.

“What’re you talking about, Isaac? How the fuck’m I supposed to know?”

He leans back into the washing machine with a sigh. “Don’t do that. You’ve had boyfriends. At least two were serious. And you’re never telling me you’ve never fucked up with them and needed to fix something?”

He can tell she’s rolling her eyes. “Look, Isaac, some things are just kinda made to be broken, you know? It’s not the end of the wor--”

“ _Erica_. I know you don’t like him, and I don’t know why, but I don’t really care, because you don’t _know him_. If you went to school here, if you _knew_ stuff, yeah, I’d be a little more worried, but you _don’t_. He fucking makes me happy, dillweed, now help me out.” He pauses. Wets his lips. “Please.”

She sighs and the static crackles in his ears. “Just remember: you don’t know him either, jackass. I don’t--I mean, you haven’t text him, you haven’t called him, you don’t really know if you’re even broken up, you don’t need to go planning some big romantic gesture to win him back, you might not’ve even _lost_ him. Goddamn, Lahey, _relax_.”

Isaac's mind goes off the rails at ‘big romantic gesture,’ and he _hears_ the rest but he is _not_ paying attention anymore. His bottom lip is pinched between his teeth and he’s jogging his foot up and down.

“Isaac?”

His first instinct is roses, but he doesn’t know if Stiles even _likes_ roses.

“ _Isaac_.”

His next is dinner, but he could never top anything like Club Fenris, no way, but maybe they could go to Worm Moon, a 50’s venue that plays endless techno and dance music, fancy as shit but more geared toward getting people to grind against one another than swirl around in circles--

“Fartknocker I swear to god if you don’t come outta your stupor in the next thirty seconds--”

“Thanks, Erica! No, really, thanks! I’ll text you once I figure out what I’m doing--oh, by the way, what state are you in right now?”

Erica sighs and it sounds long-suffering but also fond and he wishes he could hug her. “Montana, just barely--that’s what I was texting to _tell you_. Dick. I’ll text again when I hit North Dakota. Also, you’re an idiot. Don’t get him roses.”

Isaac smiles. “Did I say that out loud?”

“No.”

“Be safe.”

“Don’t be a fucking idiot.”

Then she’s gone. Isaac sighs, goes back to Stiles’s contact info, and hesitates with his finger over the call button.

Then he sighs and goes back to his home menu before locking his phone and checking if the iron is still hot.

 

By the time six comes and the sky’s all darkened up, he’s pacing with his heart in his throat, Vernon has started lightly snoring, and his phone’s inbox remains resolutely empty.

He should know, he checks probably every five minutes.

Stiles is either not safe or ignoring him.

Obviously Isaac would rather him be safe, but the alternative isn’t exactly fucking spectacular.

 

At six-thirty he picks up Stiles’s pants from where they lie folded on top of the bed, takes Stiles’s belt in hand, and then strides out the door. He does his keys-phone-wallet check as he walks down the hall to the stairs, and yes, he has all three. He’s not entirely certain what the fuck he thinks he’s doing, but he knows he needs to do it _now_ , before he winds up making himself run the city streets for god knows how long.

He winds up slightly breathless in front of Greenwall, and it takes him a couple minutes of contemplation before he can remember Stiles’s room number. He thinks it might be 219, but he could be wrong.

 

Feeling harried and slightly offended, he makes his way to room _3_ 19\. Excuse the fuck out of him for getting the floor number wrong, goddamn. He thought that prissy blonde girl was gonna take his head off. It’s not like it’s even late at night.

He knocks out ‘shave and a haircut’, unsure what to expect or if anyone’ll even answer, cradling Stiles’s pants to his chest almost protectively, completely clueless as to what he’ll do if it actually is Stiles.

The door opens and a brown-eyed dude with an uneven jaw but a really honest face opens the door, takes one look at him, and then says, “Isaac, right?” Then he’s extending a hand.

Isaac reaches out and shakes his hand and then he remembers, like a brief flicker in the back of his head, seeing this guy rollocking around the edges of auditions last night. And Stiles called him by name a _few_ times. “Scott?”

Scott grins hugely and Isaac immediately likes him. They’d probably been introduced before he’d located Vernon, before he actually had his head on straight. “Mhm, McCall, Scott McCall. Nice to meet you officially when you look like you’re all here--mostly. Fishing for intel?”

Isaac also immediately knows why Scott and Stiles are friends. They are equally as ridiculous in the best way. “Um...actually, Stiles forgot these at my dorm--”

Scott holds a hand up at him. “Dude, please. You know he’s not here, and I know you guys had a fight or something--Stiles is _never_ fucking quiet before a big drive, gets all antsy and does his checklist out loud about three dozen times, but he just came in, got his stuff, and left. Only said ‘bye’ right before the door closed.” Scott eyes him speculatively, but it seems good-natured, even though the next thing out of his mouth is, “So do I have to kick your ass?”

Isaac rubs the back of his neck and sizes Scott up, trying to dredge up anything and everything Stiles has told him. All he can remember is that Scott plays some instrument with strings (guitar maybe?) and that he wants to be a DJ at some point or something. “Can you?” Isaac has about four inches of height on Scott, and he’s pretty damn sure he’s faster. He tends to be.

Scott rolls his eyes. “That wasn’t the question I asked, dude. I didn’t ask if you thought it was _possible_ , I asked if it was _necessary_.”

Isaac picks at the skin of his bottom lip with his teeth for a moment, honestly considering. “Maybe. I dunno. Do you know if he’s safe yet?”

Scott looks momentarily startled and then nods. “Uh. Yeah, he’s fine. He called me like an hour ago.”

“So it’s safe to say you don’t need to kick my ass.”

There’s a silence that should be weird but kind of isn’t and then Scott sighs. “Look, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but you look fucking fried. You wanna get something to eat?”

About a dozen different thoughts flash through Isaac’s head, none of them coherent enough to grasp at, but the common theme here is a question about Scott’s motives.

He can’t come up with anything Scott’d do that would actually be _harmful_ to his situation, so he just puts a hand to his face and feels against his own eye socket, trying to soothe away a headache that hasn’t even started yet but that he knows is coming. “I feel fucking fried. Food would be good.”

 

Isaac realizes that he forgot to eat for over sixteen hours for the first time in two years when they get into the dining hall and he smells sausage.

Erica’d make a gangbang joke or something if she were here, because he winds up having to get two plates just for his meat before he even goes _back_ for some green stuff. The thought makes him a little sad before he remembers that she actually _will_ be here to make that joke next semester, maybe even as soon as next _month_ if she comes down before the term starts, and he’ll probably want to stab her for it. 

Scott is eyeing the meat pile regretfully once Isaac gets back to their table and picking at what looks like a veggie burger--he probably got it from the ‘special option’ station. Isaac usually eats from the ‘homestyle’ or ‘regional’ stations. He’s oddly satisfied that they both avoided the pizza. It took less than a month for the novelty to wear off for him, and it still hasn’t returned.

After the first three bites of his sausage, with Scott seriously looking like he’s about to burst into tears, Isaac finally gives and offers him some. “Uh, you can have some, I won’t tell anybody.”

Scott looks up at him hopefully, but then his expression turns to one of mild horror. “Um...no. I can’t do that. Allison’s trying this new vegetarian thing--she’ll get tired of it in a month, probably, maybe less, but I’m not eating meat while she’s not.” Then he smiles brilliantly. “Thanks for offering, though.”

Isaac’s eyes widen. “She’s not letting you eat meat?” He didn’t know Scott was one of _those_ people. There’s a difference in being willingly supportive and being controlled, and he has in instant to wonder if Scott knows which side of that line he stands on.

Scott’s face rumples up in what looks like incredulity. For a musician, he’s surprisingly easy to read--most of the ones Isaac's known have been stoic beyond reason. “It’s not like _that_. I’m doing it _with_ her. She didn’t even ask me to, and in a few weeks when I decide to try some new thing that I’ll probably drop in a month when I don’t immediately get good at it, well, she’ll try it with me, and I won’t ask her to but I’m sure as hell not gonna tell her not to. It’s just the way we are _._ ” He blinks those big brown eyes again and Isaac wonders if he’s ever stated it that clearly.

Isaac nods, like all that sounded like a totally normal _modus operandi_ , and then goes back to his food. For a moment. “So is DJ-ing something you’re gonna drop? ‘Cause Stiles mentioned that and he sounded pretty serious about it...”

Scott puffs up a little and grins and Isaac is thinking ‘no’. “He told you about that? Really? _Awesome_. Uh, no, that’s kind of an old thing, I’ve wanted to do that _forever_. I like remixing things and playing with levels of--I’m just really into music. Like every kind of music and every way to _do_ music and every moment of the process. It’s my thing.”

Isaac nods. Like theatre is _Stiles’s_ thing. He thinks again that there’s a good reason those two’re friends. “Is it Allison’s, too? Does she go here?” One thing he’s learned at college--if they have a significant other they don’t seem to hate, _ask questions_.

To his surprise, Scott laughs a little. “Oh, no, dude, no. She goes to Seattle U--across the city? Out near the business district? _Yeah_. She was undecided for a little while, but she picked last year and I think she’s sticking with it--Fashion Design. She’s _good_ at it, always has been, she just didn’t think it was a viable career option or something.”

Isaac and Scott _both_ laugh at that. As if ‘viable career option’ means shit to them. It adds to the odd sense of camaraderie he’s getting from Scott.

After a few more minutes of good-natured laughter and gorging, Isaac finally plucks up the courage to ask something about Stiles.  “So um...does Stiles like roses?”

Scott’s eyes are comically huge with surprise and he pulls half his ‘burger’ out of the bun trying to pull away from it, laughing before the meat-substitute is even all the way out of his mouth. Isaac guesses he probably sucked some down the wrong tube because after a minute he’s gasping and looking a little grey and oh yeah...

Scott has asthma. Shit.

Isaac starts to panic, opens his mouth to call for help or something, but then a flicker of motion catches his eye and Scott’s pulling a caution-yellow inhaler out of his pocket, unscrewing the end, and taking two long, solid pulls. After about five minutes he’s back to normal. During this time Isaac watches him closely while pretending not to.

“Um. Fuck, man. Are you okay?”

Scott nods and takes a long pull of his water before he speaks. “Fine. Sorry about that. Asthma flare-up's going on this week. Less than awesome.”

Isaac gives Scott a thumbs up and then waits another five minutes before reiterating the question.

Scott laughs again, but at least this time Isaac didn’t catch him unaware or _whatever_ happened. “Uh, I think he thinks red roses are cliche? He never gets them for...” Scott trails off and seems to remember who he’s talking to, wincing a little.

Well, Isaac may’ve fucked a lot of people but he didn’t _romance_ a lot of people (anyone ever), but apparently Stiles has, to quite a few people before him, if Scott’s face is anything to go by--a weird combination of sympathy and some odd brand of understanding that seems like bullshit. He doesn’t really know what to do with the information, and he feels a little weird because he doesn’t care at all. Isn’t he supposed to care? He shrugs and opens his hands, trying to convey ‘what can you do?’

Scott narrows his eyes and tilts his head just barely, then shakes out of it. “Um. Well, he just doesn’t normally go with those. Why? Thinking about getting yourself outta the doghouse already? What even _happened_?”

He’d been pretty sure that was obvious. He’s still on campus, after all. “Uh, I didn’t--I didn’t go home with him? To Beacon Hills? To meet his dad?”

Scott’s eyes narrow again. “Motherfucker. He really asked you to go with him? What the fuck, dude? Goddamn it, I told him not to do that. No sane person wants to meet your parents before the three month mark.”

Shit. Isaac is insane, then. “Well, it’s actually not _about_ meeting his dad, it’s about having to go back to that stupid _fucking_ place.” Why the hell is he telling Scott this? He met the guy less than an hour ago. What the fuck.

But Scott’s nodding sagely, totally chill. “Hey, that’s kinda cool, actually. That you’d be willing to meet Mr. Stilinski so early. It at least gets it out of the way. Why’d Stiles freak if you told him it was just because you didn’t wanna go back to town?”

Frozen with a piece of sausage half-way to his mouth, he frowns, and then settles the speared meat back onto his plate. “You really think telling him would’ve kept him from freaking out?”

Scott’s eyes pop wide and his hands come up to lace together in his dark hair. From the look on his face, Isaac has seriously fucked up. Not that he wasn’t already aware. “ _Yeah_. Are you fucking kidding me right now? Information is like Stiles’s _ultimate desire_ and if he doesn’t have any he _fabricates shit_ , God knows what reason he cooked up for you not going! You gotta call him! Before he convinces himself you two broke up or something!”

“We didn’t?”

Scott’s hands come unlaced and they bang on the table. Isaac flinches before he can think about it, and inwardly berates himself as Scott speaks in the incredulous tones of one who is _certain_ a prank is being pulled on him. “Fuck. You _didn’t_ , right? He didn’t say ‘it’s over’ or anything, right? Did _you_?”

Isaac swallows thickly. “He said ‘see you around I guess’? Does--does that count?” Here was someone who could interpret Stiles-speak for him, why hadn’t he already _thought_ of this?

Scott leans back, looking relieved. “Shit, okay, no, we’re good, he only does that if he thinks _you’re_ gonna do it, it’s okay.” Then he leans forward over his burger again abruptly, eyes large and fixed on Isaac’s. “You’re _not_ , right?”

“Why do you care so much?” It’s abrupt and probably mean-sounded but _fuck_ he’s not used to anyone being so goddamn invested in his love life--not that the one he had before this counts much, he doesn’t think. That would probably be more considered his _lust_ life, but he figured on the grand scale of things it probably measured up to be about the same thing.

Scott blinks a few times and then rubs the back of his neck. “Gotta look out for my best friend, dude.”

Isaac’s not sure why, but something about the set of Scott’s face is making him feel like Scott is lying. He doesn’t call him on it, though. Advice is advice, even if it’s for weird reasons, and this is Stiles’s best friend, who doesn’t appear to hate him, so he’s gonna take whatever he can get without being a paranoid dick.

 

As Isaac unlocks the door to his room, he mumbles to himself. Normally he doesn’t need to keep his thoughts organized by stating them verbally, but he’s starting to feel fragmented and trapped despite the wide dorm hallway and the reassuring conversation with Scott. He’s pretty sure that he and Stiles are gonna be okay, that he can _make_ them okay...

But ‘pretty sure’ isn’t ‘certain’.

Once he gets the door open (while repeating ‘shower brainstorm read sleep’, his current to-do list, in a barely-there whisper), he’s greeted by the chainsaw snores of Vernon in Repose. Isaac can’t see him for the tangle of covers, and he’s guessing last night was a real fucking bender, if Vernon sounds like _that_ so late.

He’s still muttering to himself as he walks over to his dresser to get his shower caddy, but he trails off as he realizes he still hasn’t checked his phone. He pulls it out, scrolls through his contacts, taps ‘Stiles’ and the call button, abruptly realizes what he’s just done, and hangs up before it even rings once.

He sits on the bed and runs a shaky hand through his hair. It’s seven-thirty now, a half-hour before when he usually stops calling people for the night, and he should--he should probably not...

He calls again anyway, heart hammering high in his throat. This is terrifying. He hates talking on the phone usually anyway, but this...this fucking sucks. What happens if Stiles ignores him?

He’s so goddamn certain that he’s going to have to leave a message that when Stiles answers, he’s totally thrown. His mouth opens and closes a few times as Stiles makes it through varying degrees of ‘hello’--cautious, confused, worried, irritated--and finally he finds his voice.

“Hey, Stiles, it’s me. Isaac. Did--did you make it okay?” Yes, he already knows the answer to that, and Stiles already knows who’s calling him, but he’s nervous as fuck right now and he can’t be expected to make any fucking sense.

There’s silence on the line, long enough that Isaac thinks Stiles might’ve hung up, before Stiles speaks. His voice is more quiet than Isaac can ever remember hearing, and he doesn’t _like_ it, it freaks him out. “Yeah. Hey. The drive wasn’t too bad.”

“Good. Good.” Yes, this was shaping up to be an intellectual conversation for the records. “Were--were the roads bad?” Isaac is trying very hard to keep from asking if they’re still together, but apparently it’s just making him spit even stupider questions.

There’s another long silence, and then Stiles says, “I’m sorry, I just can’t do this right now, okay? We--we can talk when I get back, okay? Just--I don’t--we can talk when I get back.”

To Isaac’s absolute horror, he realizes that Stiles is flustered and _crying a little_.

“What--no! We can talk now! It’s fine, Stiles, talk to me, we can talk now!” And he sounds desperate as shit, yeah, but he _is_ , no use trying to pretend otherwise when he’s freaking out this badly.

There’s another blank silence, longer this time, and Isaac thinks maybe he can hear Stiles swallowing, but his imagination is probably going into overdrive. “I--I really can’t. We can talk when I get back. Bye.” A soft click.

 

Eight outgoing calls later--Stiles’s voicemail message is probably the cutest, dumbest thing Isaac’s ever heard in his life, Stiles sounds about sixteen and he’s _rapping_ \--Isaac is creeping up into hysterical. His pulse is officially staccato and it’s all he can do not to flee the room and just _go_. He paces back and fourth quickly, socked feet making no noise against the tile. Holy fuck he feels like he’s about to have a panic attack. Is Stiles so mad at him he can’t even fucking _speak_ to him or is something _bad_ happening? What the fuck is going on?

 

When he finds himself outside of Stiles’s dorm again in socked feet he’s not entirely surprised. He feels windblown and exhausted, and just as he’s about to knock a pleasure-filled moan reaches him through the door. He pauses with his hand maybe an inch from the wood of the door, and then he runs again.

 

This time he doesn’t stop until the needles of fear quit trying to press their way out of his skin.

 

“Isaac, are you fucking _sure_ about this?”

Boyd’s probably asked him about a dozen times, which is a _lot_ for Boyd.

Isaac is starting to wish he’d slept on through. His backpack was just about packed when Boyd woke up.

He nods sharply and goes back to methodically rolling up his pants, eternally grateful that he decided to wash clothes.

As an afterthought, he shoves Stiles’s boxers into his side pocket.

 

The Greyhound is cramped and smells vaguely of pee, but it could be worse. He has a seat by the driver, an iPod to blare, and fifty bucks _total_ to his name to last him until next semester, so if Stiles isn’t happy to see him or expects him to stay at a motel or something, he’s pretty much fucked.

He falls asleep with his head on the glass at four in the morning, and falls into the past almost as soon as his eyes flicker shut.

 

_He’s in. He’s fucking in._

_Seattle Peforming Arts University._

_He’s in._

_He smiles and laughs through dinner, and his father seems surprised at how relaxed he is._

_He should’ve thought about it, they say hindsight is 20/20, he really should’ve thought about it and pretended everything was normal, but he was getting_ **_out_ ** _, he was leaving in a week, he couldn’t help but be excited._

_He should've thrown the letter away, but it meant so fucking much to him he wanted to frame it or something._

_He left for his shift at the graveyard still smiling, iPod inserted and blaring weird reggae he’d found randomly on Spotify._

_He dances all the way to work and most of the way home._

_When he sees the look on his dad’s face as he takes his jacket off, he’s not dancing anymore, nor is he smiling._

 

_His throat is sandpaper. His limbs are stiff pain. He’s sitting in a thin layer of his own urine and fecal matter, and the long cut he gave himself struggling on the bare lip of the freezer, a new one that goes all the way from the middle of his back to under his armpit on the other side, is oozing. His shirt is sticking to his body. The puss smells weird, even though the stench of his shameful defecation._

_He flinches when he hears boots on the stairs, flinches at every step taken even though he is too exhausted to move worth a damn._

_He weakly crumples his arms over his head and shuts his eyes against the brightness he knows is coming._

_“Fuck, that’s horrible.”_

_He cracks his eyes open and his dad’s waving a hand in front of his face, looking disgusted. More shame sinks deep into Isaac’s chest._

_“Get up. Come on, get up, I think you’ve learned your lesson. An Army man my son’s gonna be. We_ ** _discussed_** _this, Isaac, if you’d just been paying attention this wouldn’t have_ ** _happened_**. _”_

_Then his dad’s clutching at his chest and his eyelids flutter and Isaac thinks there’s something wrong then, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word. He can’t yet anyway._

_His dad disappears from view and then he hears lumbering, faltering steps. He grips the lip of the freezer, one of the spots he hadn’t picked clean of the insulation and inadvertently made a wicked knife-edge to scar himself on, and the horror in his pants slimes down his legs and every single one of his limbs scream pain and hatred at him, too asleep for even static prickles._

_Then his dad stops near the top of the stairs and starts scrabbling at the door frame. His breathing sounds ragged and weird._

_Isaac sees the moment he overbalances._

_His father goes crashing down the stairs still clutching at his chest with one hand, screaming most of the way, and he lands so_ **_weird_ ** _, his head is turned almost fully around and facing Isaac, he makes some gurgling noises and then stops and Isaac doesn’t move._

_Doesn’t make a sound._

_He waits until his dad’s body twitches and then goes limp, and by that time he’s pulled himself upright, swaying slightly, feeling disgusting and horrible and..._

_And oddly calm._

_He steps out of the freezer, ripping through the knee of his pants and scratching a gash in it, before stumbling, trembling, toward his dad._

_He smiles and splits his cracked lips when he realizes that his father has pissed himself._

_He steps on his dad’s glasses, sitting on the top step, on his way to the fridge._

 

_About half-way through the burning hot shower, after he’s sipped at a bottle of water and downed two more (sometimes you think you’re thirsty, you really do, and then others you spend five days in the freezer and you’d rip your own leg off and damn the consequences if you could just get_ **_water_ ** _), he fully realizes what’d just happened. He leaves immediately, tugging his clothes onto his sopping body and_ **_running_ ** _._

_Erica’s already gone to New York and Boyd's helping his gram move into her retirement community and Isaac probably wouldn’t have gone to them anyway._

_His feet lead him to the one place he usually feels safe, because as far as he knows, no one else knows about it._

_He curls up in the blankets that’d accumulated over the years and sleeps in the end subway car, grateful beyond reason that the thing’d never been completed._

 

They must’ve taken a turn too sharp or something, because Isaac wakes up suddenly with a pretty intense pain in his head, and the woman across from him is looking at him with concern. He offers her a tight, tentative smile, mostly because at the moment he has no idea where the fuck he his and he can’t manage a genuine grin. He rubs his temple, trying to get at the pain inside his head, and tries to remember his dream, but he only gets a vague sense of ratty blankets and that’s when the driver announces that they’re pulling into the Stony Falls Greyhound station now.

All thought of his stupid dream ceases. Two more stops and then they’ll be in Beacon Hills.

Isaac really likes Stiles, a _lot_ , but he’s starting to regret this decision.

 

‘Starting to’ has morphed into ‘just regret’ as he wanders out of the flourist’s place clutching his bouquet ( _now thirty dollars to my name,_ ** _great_** _)_ and realizes abruptly that he has _no fucking idea where Stiles lives_. He tries calling Stiles first, and it goes to voicemail after three rings. It’s eleven AM, and if he doesn’t get some fucking sleep soon, he’s gonna just collapse on the side of the street.

_I could go to the subway s--_

He cuts that thought off fast, shaking his head ( _not the only one who knows about that that’s where they caught me_ ), but then he’s woozy and he has to lean against the side of a building and catch his breath. He’s torturing his body right now, he’s seriously fucking himself up, this is _stupid_ , he’s being stupid.

He takes off his backpack and starts to just sit down, just for a minute, and get a breath, but he sees a cop car out of the corner of his eye.

He tastes bile and his stomach clenches. He’s pretty sure his testicles are trying to draw up into his body and hide, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t almost wet himself.

‘ _Maybe you didn’t kill him, but you_ ** _did_** _leave him there to die, didn’t you? Your own fucking father and you just_ ** _left_** _him there--’_

Isaac shakes his head again and pulls his backpack back on. Fuck that. Not stopping until he gets under cover.

At least as under cover as you can get when they’re in a town full of cops that probably still think you committed patricide.

 

For the moment, ‘cover’ turns out to be a pay phone at a Shell station. He opens the phone book and flicks to the ‘S’s, but he has no real hope, which is good, because there’s not a single Stilinksi to be found.

He dials the operator, but apparently if it’s unlisted there’s nothing she can do.

His Google search for some reason tells him to try the Sheriff’s station. He actually laughs out loud at that and then just tries calling the person he’s trying to get to again.

Nothing.

Since it doesn’t look like he has another choice, he walks, and starts checking houses for a blue jeep once he gets in the residential areas.

 

He knows he looks like a homeless person, and he’s massively uncomfortable, but he starts at the middle of town and goes in the opposite direction from his house, getting lost an innumerable amount of times. He’s exhausted and his feet are _aching_. More than once he wonders what he’s gonna do if Stiles parked in the garage.

If Stiles is at the hospital with his dad. (He’d been pretty sure that Mr. Stilinski was out by now back on campus, but the only thing he’s pretty sure of after walking for so long on so little is that a blister on his right heel popped and is oozing into his sock.)

If Stiles freaks out in a _bad_ way when he shows up and asks him what the hell he thinks he’s doing.

If he doesn’t find Stiles’s house before it gets dark.

If he has to sleep outside and he dies of exposure. (His phone puts the forecast at under thirty degrees, and he’s been constantly shaking and blowing out icy breaths. The flowers he got have long since wilted, and they don’t look awful exactly, but they don’t look _alive_ either.)

If a cop stops him and asks what the hell he thinks he’s doing.

 

When he finally sees Stiles’s jeep, it’s going on four. He’s near to collapse anyway, and he wouldn’t’ve been able to go on much longer. He swipes a hand through his hair in an attempt to make himself look presentable and walks straight up to the front door, too fucking exhausted to be terrified anymore.

He tries Stiles’s phone again at the door, and hears--or imagines he hears--a faint ‘ _oh-oh sometimes I get a good_ ’ before it clicks off through the door. So Stiles is probably right on the other side.

Isaac swallows hard, stuffs his phone in his pocket, and knocks shave-and-a-haircut, and holds his breath without realizing it.

He hears the thunk of footsteps and has a second to think that it’s probably not Stiles who’s gonna open the door before it swings inward.

There’s a moment where they don’t recognize each other, this stout man with washed-out denim blue eyes and the tall curly-haired kid that’s not a kid anymore. Isaac smiles and what he’s assuming is Stiles’s dad smiles back, and he extends his hand and then it slams into Isaac’s brain with all the force of a brown Prius speeding in a parking lot.

_He was one of the ones that arrested me._

Isaac’s smile stays plastered on but his eyes go up, up, following the fleeing light as his blood drains away from his face and his body goes into survival mode.

Fight has never been an option, flight is no longer an option, so his body simply shuts down.

He hears, or imagines he hears, ‘Dad, who’s at the door? Are you okay, is--ghost...’ and the words get smaller and smaller and then he’s just barely breathing, swaddled in a weirdly watery blackness that feels transient but inescapable as the ground rushes up to meet him.


	8. There Is Nothing I Won't Dare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles carries his hot (for more reasons than one) boyfriend over the threshold and Isaac gets to meet a third of the Stilinski family and the only half of the McCall parentage that matters.
> 
> Isaac is sick and scared but not so scared Stiles can't reach him.
> 
> Thanksgiving also happens, and Ms. Melissa tries to steal Stiles's crown for 'Most Awkward Thing Ever Said During A Holiday Feast.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First ever chapter that's been beta'd ya'll! By the lovely and amazing [spiffingbeansalad](http://spiffingbeansalad.tumblr.com/), who has become a dear friend and an indispensable resource in a matter of days. Pippa, there is absolutely **no way** this could've happened without you. None at all. As far as I'm concerned, you're the Stiles to my Isaac AND the Isaac to my Stiles, however weird that sounds. You make me so much better, dude, and you're so supportive and so awesome and so freakin' _nice_ you're just wonderful okay you're great.
> 
> I know it took a ridiculous amount of time to update this, but be warned, there is more to come! With this amazing beta by my side I feel like I could conquer the whole website!
> 
> Also, in the holiday spirit, I'd like to thank those of you who tried to help me keep my head above water with this, who kept asking when updates would be. I'd like to thank you guys who've been here since the beginning, waiting (maybe not so patiently, but still, waiting) for me to get off my butt and keep going for you. I'm thankful to you, whoever you are, reading this and thinking 'wow oh my god this is the cheesiest person on the face of the planet'. Just. I am so thankful for anyone who read this and is still reading it or even just saw the update and was like 'huh, sure'.
> 
> You guys are awesome. Thanks for reading.

“What is he _doing_ here? I thought you said he said ‘no’? Stiles?” His dad’s voice is a hissing whisper, even though it’s highly unlikely that Isaac can hear them from the living room.

Stiles is trying hard not to panic, and he mimics his father’s tone even though it’s pointless, wishing the stairwell was a little darker because then he couldn’t see how pale his dad looks, how dark the skin under his eyes is, how _weak_ he still seems. “Yeah yeah he is, I don’t know why he—what the fuck he thinks he’s—” He pauses, takes a long breath in through his nose and out through his mouth.

He rubs at his lower back, trying to coax the over-taxed muscles quiet. Isaac is exactly as heavy as he looks, and carrying the ridiculously long man across the threshold like a stolen bride was not on his list of things that were okay, or comfortable. Shit, it wasn’t even on Stiles’s list of things he thought he was capable of. He forces his voice back up to something approaching normal volume. “Dad, Dad, sit down, okay? Just sit down, don’t freak out on me—”

“Freak out? Who would freak out? Why would I freak out? Has he told you yet?” Dad’s whispers are going breath-y and Stiles is barely resisting the urge to bolt over to the phone and dial 911.

He can already hear the conversation. _911, what is your emergency? Oh, yeah, my boyfriend passed out and gave my dad another heart attack. I’m gonna need two ambulances, please, three if you don’t hurry the fuck up._

“You are very obviously freaking out and he didn’t tell me—he was trying to call, but I didn’t—I thought—I didn’t know he was coming here. I’m sorry, I’m really really sorry, I don’t know what the _fuck_ is wrong with him—”

Suddenly his dad is glaring at him, all ‘come on kid _seriously_ and Stiles’s stomach slinks to his ankles, he has no idea where that’s coming from, but the look shifts to ‘did you break something again’ soon enough. “You weren’t answering his phone calls? Did something happen?” Quiet, but not breathless.

Stiles can handle that.

“He wasn’t going to come back with me. He said. He said he didn’t wanna come. I thought he was gonna—I thought we were kind of, you know. Not a thing anymore.” He swallows and looks anywhere but his dad’s smug face.

Now he’s getting the ‘yeah, you broke something again’ look and his chest tightens down. And then Dad rubs the back of his neck and _holy fuck_ that’s the ‘but it was mostly my fault’ look, what the fuck is going on? “Dad.” Stiles pushes his gaze out, trying to make it demanding and pleading at the same time.

Apparently it works. His dad puts both his hands out in surrender, and Stiles brightens a little. “Well, I could kind of tell. You mope, Stiles. And he—. Well. I can’t tell you. We just—we know each other. He ran into some trouble—” Stiles feels his eyes narrow and his dad shakes his head quick. “ _Son_ , I didn’t even have to go in the system for this! I know him. Just took a little while to remember. And he’s not a bad kid, he just has some...history here, some stuff that pushes a person to act maybe not at a hundred percent of rationality. I can honestly tell you that if he’s breaking up with you it’s gonna be because I’m your dad…or because you’re standing here in the stairwell talking to me while he freezes to death. Aren’t you supposed to be bringing him some blankets and aspirin?”

Stiles’s face crumples and he’s right on the edge of crying, what the _fuck_ , fuck this, oh god this is gonna be the worst most awkward Thanksgiving ever. “ _Thanks_ Dad. Great pep talk. _Phenomenal_. I’ll go do that.” He starts up the stairs but stops. “Wait. How come if he’s such a ‘good kid’ he outright fucking fainted at the sight of you?”

His dad narrows his eyes and a chill goes up Stiles’s spine. That look is so much worse coming from the senior Stilinksi. “You’re gonna cut this swearing out. _Now_. I don’t care if you’re over drinking age, I’m your _father_ , Stiles.”

Then the old man stomps to the stove and starts up the tea pot with a sour expression.

Stiles doesn’t realize he got played until he’s stripping the comforter off his old bed.

When he comes back downstairs, arms full of blanket, one hand clutching a pill bottle, his dad is fucking _whistling_. “Yeah. Fine. How come he’s so afraid of you? Why are you totally okay with the fact that he just showed up here like a _stalker_?”

His dad looks at him with unsurprised, hard eyes. “Why are you?”

Stiles swallows. “I. Like him. A lot. I’m kind of just happy he’s here even if he’s kind of acting like an insane person.” His face twists in concentration. “Okay. Totally acting like an insane person.”

His dad shrugs as he pours some hot water into a big white mug that Stiles has never seen before. A pang goes through his chest before his dad speaks. “Well. I can’t say I’m surprised.”

Stiles groans, tries not to stomp around like a fucking teenager. “Dad, would you just tell me? Whatever I think up’s gonna be a lot worse than whatever it is, okay?”

A head-shake. “Not mine to tell, kiddo. Now go tuck your boyfriend in. And bring him some tea while you’re at it. I think I need a nap.”

Stiles suddenly wants to retract any and all sass. “I’m—I’m sorry, Dad, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to tire you out—” It’s only like four in the afternoon, this should not be happening—

Suddenly Stiles is enveloped in a hug, blanket and all. “Son. Relax. I’m fine. You didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t freak out on me.”

Stiles’s mouth pulls up involuntarily and his eyes well. “Love you.”

“Love you, too, kiddo. Now hurry up, I don’t want a dead college kid on my couch when I get up for dinner. If he starts to look too bad or isn’t being coherent, call Melissa, okay?”

It’s still super weird, the fond way his dad says Scott’s mom’s name. “Okay.” He watches his dad take the stairs slower than ever before, but still steady. Always steady. Goddamn it, his dad better not die.

Stiles watches the empty stairwell for a few moments before he can bring himself to shuffle into the living room. He tries not to look at Isaac specifically, doesn’t want to freak him out, but how can he look anywhere else? Isaac is huddled on the couch, fully conscious now, it seems. He has a vagrant look about him, like he’s been wandering the streets for hours.

Isaac is also doing his best to avoid eye contact with Stiles.

Not even just his eyes. His entire body. Stiles is now an entity that Isaac Lahey is trying not to look at.

Fuck his life.

When Isaac was bleary, when he sounded like his head was melting and Stiles was carrying him through the door, Isaac locked his arms around Stiles’s neck, wouldn’t let him go when Stiles was trying to lay him on the couch. Stiles can’t forget that. Doesn’t want to.

Isaac wants to be here with him. He has to remember that.

His voice comes out way too quiet, pretty much pleading even though he’s not asking for anything. “Hey.” Like he’s talking to a scared dog. Fuck.

The way Isaac shifts sideways and looks up, so his spine is against the niche the back of the couch going into the cushions makes just to better see him, melts Stiles at least a little. Isaac’s face is all unfocused fear even though Stiles must look idiotic, standing here more blanket than man, chin shoving down the fabric so he can see. Those lips Stiles thinks he could be in love with twitch up in an attempt at a smile that fails pretty miserably and that’s it.

Stiles is still worried and super freaked out and _what the fuck how did he find my house_ , but he’s not angry. His dad’s okay, and Isaac is trying to smile at him. He’s not angry.

He slips between the couch and the coffee table and awkwardly leans and twists until the mug is close enough to Isaac that he doesn’t have to reach for it, but him taking it won’t release an avalanche of blanket on his head. “Here.”

Isaac takes the tea. Doesn’t drink it, just sits there with his ridiculous legs taking up all the rest of the space on the couch and his ridiculous curly hair pillowed against the arm of it and Stiles has nowhere to sit so he gets on his knees and sits on his feet, the coffee table digging into his back just a little. Isaac is looking at him, and he is looking at Isaac, and he has no idea what the hell he’s supposed to do or say or _be_ right now, so he sits in statis.

When it becomes apparent that Isaac isn’t going to make the first move, he just says what he’s thinking. Usually that’s a run-on sentence about six paragraphs long and includes everything from sex to Oreos to Macbeth and back again, but right now, at this moment, today, it’s only one word.

“Isaac…”

Isaac looks away and shivers all over, a quick convulsion that has Stiles’s heart climbing the ridged walls of his esophagus in no time. Abruptly Stiles remembers the blankets, and spreads them over Isaac from his position on the floor, grateful that his arms are at least kind of long, not wanting to move away from Isaac’s torso, from his face. “Dude. You could’ve called.” He smiles, just barely, and swallows hard.

“Right, because I didn’t try.” Isaac’s eyes are on his suddenly, blessedly, not accusing, just resigned. “Look, if I ‘need to go I—I probably just need to go, huh? Just…just let me catch my breath some and I’ll go.” His voice etches out a wide, deep ache in Stiles’s chest. Why does Isaac sound like he’s in so much pain, like the words are being ripped from his mouth?

Stiles’s lips pull tight. “Why would you need to go? You just got here.” Somehow this has become awkward.

He hates everything about it.

“Plus you’re running a fever, you _can’t_ leave until that goes away.” He looks at Isaac and Isaac looks at him and he can’t think of a way to break the silence.

Finally Isaac does, and what he says brings more confusion than Stiles can properly express. “Did you get the flowers? I didn’t drop them on the way, did I?”

“You got me flowers?”

Isaac blushes and Stiles would count that as a ‘win’ if Isaac’s cheeks weren’t already burning with fever-heat.

“Right, shit. Here. Take these.” He hands Isaac the (now slightly damp from palm-sweat) aspirin.

Isaac does as he’s told, drinks the tea without even flinching even though Stiles isn’t sure how he _can_ because it was still fucking steaming. He actually drains the cup and makes a satisfied sound, one that should be reserved for finishing a Coke in August. He settles the empty mug in his lap, starts drawing his fingers against the handle.

“Thirsty?”

Isaac nods once and strokes long fingers through his own hair. Stiles is a terrible person, because he watches the motion, and he knows Isaac is sick but he still wants…

He reaches out and soothes his fingers over Isaac’s cheek. Isaac’s eyes close and he makes that same noise again, that ‘ahh’ Stiles associates with popped coke tops and bottles opening and condensation. It’s so out of place in November. “God they’re so cool…”

“Shit, sorry.” Stiles starts to pull his hand away but those delicate, careful fingers close over his own and _they’re_ the ones that’re warm now.

“Please don’t.” Isaac covers his eyes with Stiles’s hand and Stiles wonders if they’re glowing behind those lids, they’re so fucking hot.

“Okay, I think I’m gonna call Ms. Melissa.”

His hand is immediately released and he can practically _taste_ Isaac’s panic. “Please. Please don’t. I can just. I can leave. Just let me leave. You don’t have to call the cops, please, _please_ Stiles, don’t, I can just leave, just let me leave, please—”

He’s actually trying to get up, and Stiles starts to stand, pushes Isaac’s shoulders down, and then all hell breaks loose.

Well, that’s how it feels, but all that actually happens is that Isaac’s breathing goes ragged and he shoves the shit out of Stiles and Stiles loses his balance, the backs of his calves catch on the lip of the coffee table, and he sits down on it hard enough to sting, hard enough to cry out in surprise, hard enough to be stunned half out of his mind.

And Isaac is crying.

“Oh—oh—oh my god, oh god I’m sorry I didn’t— _fuck_ —” It’s all so shredded and so raw and Stiles finds himself drawn back towards Isaac, not quite standing, just reaching out, and Isaac flinches helplessly down into the couch like he’s trying to bury himself in it as Stiles’s hands reach out.

Stiles recoils, crosses his arms to keep his hands from twitching everywhere, tries to look non-threatening. He should probably stand up, this thing can’t be very sturdy, but his legs are jello. “I. I’m sorry. You—you _can_ leave, okay? If you want. But Ms. Melissa isn’t a cop. She’s Scott’s mom, she’s a nurse, and you’re sick. I wasn’t trying to scare you. I won’t…I won’t hurt you…” These are not sentences he ever expected to be saying.

He also never expected to see anyone look this defeated. Isaac covers his face with his hands, turns abruptly to ball his upper body against the couch, and his crying amps up, shaking ripples over his body.

Stiles can’t just sit there with Isaac sobbing like he is, especially not when he can’t see Isaac’s face. He finally transfers his silly ass to the edge of the couch, gingerly, like Isaac is gonna jump again.

Isaac jumps again. His breathing goes even weirder and then stops completely and Stiles…Stiles might panic a little.

“ _Isaac_. Listen to me, listen, listen, okay? You’re—I mean, you’re fine, I’m fine, you didn’t hurt me, I’m not going to hurt you. Isaac? You there, baby? Hello?” He takes both of Isaac’s shoulders. Turns him over on his back with a little difficulty (still heavy as hell). Wraps fingers that’ve done way more fun stuff than _this_ around his wrists and tugs his hands gently off his face and Isaac stares, his eyes way too fucking big.

“Swear promise?” The words are so strangled Stiles can barely understand, but when it clicks, it really clicks.

“Swear-promise, dude. I am not gonna hurt you. You said something about flowers. Did flowers happen without me being aware?”

Isaac’s eyes are also glassy, and Stiles’s stomach is threatening to reject that soup he had for lunch if Isaac doesn’t start looking a lot less freaked out within the next thirty seconds. “No. I don’t. You. I didn’t. Mean to. I wasn’t trying to hurt you just don’t I don’t don’t h-hold me down right now I can’t do that don’t do that I can’t—can’t breathe okay I fucking _hate_ it here I can’t—I shouldn’t’ve—this whole fucking place it’s just it’s closing in I don’t belong here anymore I hate it I hate it Stiles—” Isaac is looking everywhere and Stiles feels like a helpless teenager again, he doesn’t know how to make this better.

He’s never seen Isaac like this, not fragile, fucking _cracked_ , and it’s killing him.

“The living room? You hate the living room? We could move you to my room, you were just kinda heavy, sorry—”

“This _place_.” It whistles out of Isaac and then it seems like his throat locks up, like the panic surging around just under the skin swells that opening shut and Stiles gets it, sort of, he thinks.

He’s talked his way out of a lot of shit, but never anything this bad. “Isaac. Look at me.” Isaac isn’t. His pupils are pointed toward Stiles but somehow they’re still way too far off and he squeezes Isaac’s hands. “ _Look at me_ , Isaac. You didn’t hurt me. And you’re safe here. This place, my place, my house in this town, it’s safe. I’m not gonna let anyone hurt you.”

Still hollow-eyed, but not as bad. Breathing maybe a semblance of normal now. Stiles swallows around a lump in his throat.

“Isaac?”

Isaac’s tongue slicks across his lips and makes Stiles ashamed again. “Yeah?”

“I need you to go to sleep, okay? I’ll be right here. I’m gonna call Ms. Melissa, Scott’s mom, I’m gonna call her and she’s gonna come over and make sure you’re okay. Then we’re gonna try to get you to eat something. Okay?”

“Okay. Just. Cops. Don’t—I swear, I swear to god, Stiles, I swear, if you want me to get out you only have to tell me please…please don’t…” Isaac’s fading out faster than Stiles has ever seen anyone do it and it’s making his stomach flop, making him wonder if he should just call an ambulance.

But then Isaac is asleep, well and truly gone, and the way his whole face relaxes says that maybe he just needed a fucking break. Stiles puts his own face in his hands and leans against Isaac’s side, just barely, trying to get himself under control.

Finally, feeling semi-collected, he stands. He looks Isaac over, like he’s doing some checklist or something—feet covered, eyes closed, hands...not empty, or under the covers.

Isaac’s fingers are curled around his dad’s new mug. In the struggle and Isaac freaking out it’d wound up wedged between Isaac’s side and the couch, and Isaac felt compelled to touch it again. Something in Stiles’s chest _twists_. He plucks it from Isaac’s fingers but just as he straightens up, the fucking thing slips from his hand.

His whole body tenses for the shatter and he even flinches away, but the mug just bounces on the carpet. Somewhere far back in his spoiled-rotten little heart Stiles is jealous, because this mug was here after he left this place and it should be breakable, it should _burst_ , but that’s not important right now. He watches Isaac as he picks up the mug, watches his slow even breathing and the way his eyes flicker and make his eyelids look like they’re rippling, trying to be sure he wasn’t disturbed by the noise. Stiles is afraid to even straighten up, somehow sure that Isaac will flinch from him again.

Finally he’s just watching Isaac, like a total creep, and he slowly stands straight, allowing himself to look just a little longer, until Isaac turns his face against the couch and makes a little whimpering sound. Right. Ms. Melissa. Calling her. Right.

 

Ms. Melissa keeps assuring him that yes, yes, she’s on her way, and he feels guilty because he knows she got off work less than an hour ago but still, shit. He hangs up, settling more firmly in his dad’s leather La-Z-Boy, and stares at his phone screen.

He has seven missed calls from Isaac. Seven.

Fuck he’s a terrible boyfriend.

If he even is still Isaac’s boyfriend is no longer a question in his mind. You don’t do crazy psycho stuff for people who you just broke up with. That’s reserved for people you never dated or people you’re currently dating.

So he and Isaac are currently dating. Good. Really, really good.

Oh, shit, there’s a missed call from Scott on here, too. No voicemail, though. He shoots off a quick text, ‘whaddayawant’ flying North towards Scott at the press of a button, Scott who is more than likely sucking face with Allison while they wait for a call from her parents letting them know they’re in the area.

Stiles clutches his phone with both his hands, lets his leg jog up and down as his heart basically throbs in his chest. He looks at Isaac, wishes Isaac was looking at him. Finally he can’t take it anymore and he gets up and wanders upstairs to his dad’s door.

He thinks of knocking for a moment before he just pushes it open. If his dad’s up, he has someone to talk to. If he’s not, Stiles can at least assure himself that the guy’s still breathing.

His dad is under the covers, completely out. Without his eyes open, he looks so much older, like Stiles could touch his face and the worn leather skin would just crumble away to dust. Stiles’s stomach turns over, and he has to get out of the room because he can feel it, palpable panic, threatening to surge up and overtake him.

Jesus fucking christ when did his dad get so old?

He closes the door quietly and gets _Desperation_ from his room.

 

He’s on page six, thinking he’s never gonna actually finish this fucking book, when he hears a knock.

“Thank god.” He wedges the thick novel in the armchair and scrambles to the door, though the sight that greets him when he opens it isn’t anything he was expecting.

Well, that’s not quite true. He was expecting Ms. Melissa, but he was _not_ expecting her to be holding a large bouquet, made up of about a thousand different shades of purple. “Wow, Ms. Melissa. Thanks, you shouldn’t have.” He deadpans it, because the scrunched look of her face, like she’s trying really fucking hard not to laugh, plus everything he knows about her, says she would never, ever bring flowers. To anything. Anywhere. Ever.

She finally gives up and smiles. It lights up her whole face, the same way Scott’s smile does, and Stiles calms significantly. Ms. Melissa is here. She’ll help him. She can handle this.

“That’s okay, hon. I didn’t. I think these were meant to be for you.” She pushes the flowers into his hands as she crosses the threshold.

Confusion ripples through his brain, making his eyebrows scrunch together. “Thanks. I guess. Where’d you find them? How do you know they’re for me?”

“They were actually in the middle of the street a few houses over. I figured since you said he walked...” She shrugs. “Plus the card has your name on it. So where _is_ the crazy boyfriend?”

Stiles knows better than to be indignant, even though he’d really like to scoff at her. “On the couch. And not crazy. Just really, really sick.”

She raises her eyebrows at him, still looking way too amused. “Yeah, yeah.” Her eyes go from the expanse of living room containing the TV to the side with the couch, and when she sees Isaac she actually stops in her tracks, mouth open. She brushes a bit of hair away from her face and then rubs at her hairline, looking totally amazed. A low whistle finally leaves her mouth and she grins up at Stiles, like Isaac is a puppy masquerading as a present under their Christmas tree.

“What?” Isaac is sick, Stiles couldn’t give a fuck less how hot he is right now.

“Oh my _god_ , Stiles! Look at him! If I were ten years younger and your dad was less hot, wow, I would be all over that.”

He sighs, and Isaac chooses this moment to whimper and Ms. Melissa is immediately Nurse Melissa, crossing the room in five strides longer than they have any right to be and leaning down, shaking Isaac’s shoulder.

“Hey, what’re you doing? Let him sleep, look at him, he’s exhausted!” He’s damn near furious in about two seconds and he has no idea where it’s coming from. The words hiss through clenched teeth because if they don’t, they’ll explode from his lips and wake Isaac up anyway.

“Stiles.” That’s the warning voice. The ‘let me do my job’ voice. Jesus. “I have to know his symptoms. And also that he didn’t just slip into a coma. Calm down.”

Coma? Fuck, a _coma_? Is she just saying that to get him to shut the fuck up? Because it’s working, he’s shutting the fuck up now. He backs up even though he’s still across the room by the door, holding the flowers to his chest with one hand, and watches her feel against Isaac’s forehead. Finally, Isaac’s eyes open, and Stiles gasps, air re-flooding lungs he hadn’t even felt starving. No coma. Okay. No coma.

He doesn’t have to deal with that again.

“Isaac? Hi, honey, I’m Melissa. I’m gonna ask you a couple questions, I want you to answer me as best you can, okay?”

Isaac’s eyes are full of confusion and maybe pain, but he nods, and then looks over Ms. Melissa’s shoulder, at the flowers Stiles has against his chest. He smiles, and Stiles watches the tension fall from his face. “You got them.”

Stiles smiles back, even though he suddenly wants to cry. “Yeah. Ms. Melissa found them. I’d do introductions but she kind of already made them.” 

Ms. Melissa looks over her shoulder at him, lips twitching up for just a moment, then refocuses on her patient. “Okay, Isaac, I’d like you to tell me your full name, please.”

Isaac’s still looking at Stiles when he says “Isaac Lahey.”

“Okay, Isaac, are you feeling any pain in your head or neck?”

“No ma’am.”

The words are so soft, so sweet and slightly lost that Stiles can’t help but grin, and Isaac smiles back tentatively, and yeah Stiles is probably gonna cry. “Okay, I’ll um, I’m gonna go put these in a vase or something.” He walks through the living room without looking at either of them again, no matter how desperately he wants to rush over to Isaac and hold his hands tightly and kiss at his face and make him feel better by force of will.

 

About ten minutes later, after he’s tossed out the dusty fake flowers in the window above the sink, washed the vase, filled it, and stuffed the flowers in there, after he’s essentially collapsed against the counter and cried for all of two seconds, he hears his dad coming down the stairs.

Stiles straightens up quickly, wiping his eyes on the inside of his t-shirt. He’s glad he’s never been a loud crier, or one that couldn’t stop once they started.

“Son? Melissa here?” His dad’s voice is all sleep-groggy but solid, and it’s exactly what he needs to hear.

He turns to the stairs, still not quite able to smile. “Yeah. She’s talking to him now. He—he’s not fine or anything, but he’s not _bad_ , you know?”

His dad smiles. “Yeah. I know. Those from him?” He nods at the flowers over the sink, smile widening a little. “I think I like this boy.”

Stiles wants to wince. _You like this boy that wandered around town until he found our house? The fuck, Dad?_ “Yeah. Me too. Ms. Melissa’s in the living room.” Ms. Melissa walks into the kitchen then, face neutral. “Okay, I stand corrected, Ms. Melissa is right here.”

Ms. Melissa addresses him first, which he is eternally grateful for. “He’s fine. Has a hard case of exhaustion and a double ear infection, but he’s gonna be okay, Stiles. And good news for Papa Bear, he’s not contagious. The fever’s just from his body trying to burn the infection out of his ears.” She then turns to his dad and that’s his cue to look away or turn his head or something because there’s an obvious spark that passes from his eyes to hers and visa versa, and he knows it’s childish and stupid but it still _hurts_ to see.

“Thanks for coming over.” He says it quietly and then slips past her into the living room, leaving them with each other. It’s not like he lives here anymore anyway, he can’t be jealous. He left his dad completely alone, of course he had to find someone to fill up that space.

Just, did he have to find someone to fill up that space that he also has sex with? Was that necessary?

He couldn’t delve too far into his own head, though, because there was Isaac, looking groggy but pleased as hell to see him. “Hey.” He smiles again, can’t help it, because Isaac’s cheeks are bright with fever and his eyes might as well be set in purple-blue sinkholes but he’s still beautiful and he still looks happy to see Stiles even if there’s worry in that gaze, too.

“Hey.” Isaac swallows, licks his lips. “Babe.”

Yeah, okay, Stiles officially loves that. Isaac doesn’t even have to buy him flowers, he can just say that word a few times and Stiles’ll be fine. Stiles walks over and sits down on the side of the couch by Isaac’s side where he’s still all stretched out, not thinking about how scared Isaac was or how much being pushed into the coffee table stung. _Not_ thinking about those things. He puts a hand on Isaac’s face and Isaac leans into it and sighs just barely, and oh yeah, asshole, he’s sick, duh. “Hey.” What? Why’d he say that again?

Isaac laughs, just barely, and puts his hand over Stiles’s on his face. The palm is desert-dry and the same kind of hot; it makes Stiles a little ill, to think of how Isaac is baking alive in his skin. “Did uh...did you like them? The flowers?” Isaac looks up at Stiles through long eyelashes, the hint of a smile on his face.

Stiles snorts through his nose and leans forward, gently and chastely kissing Isaac’s lips even though he’d like nothing more than to kiss him so wet and open they both break in half. He settles his forehead on Isaac’s, words finally coming to him, things to say etching themselves on his tongue. “Yeah. A lot. They were...they were really nice, Isaac. We gotta talk about this, and about you not doing this again, okay? You could’ve gotten seriously hurt, you got yourself really sick, that’s not cool, dude.” He’s probably playing the mom, but it’s not like he can help it.

Isaac nods, though, and leans into him, one hand coming up to cup against the side of his neck. “I know. This was, I knew  
this was stupid while I was doing it. We just—we left it bad, and you were mad at me, and I talked to Scott and I needed to tell you I was sorry. It’s not you, okay? It’s not meeting your dad, we’re not going to fast, it’s nothing to do with that, it’s just _here_. Beacon Hills, it’s bad for me, nothing good has happened here, I hate this place and I didn’t wanna come. Okay?”

Not okay. Nowhere near enough information. But maybe now isn’t the time to push. Isaac slipped over an edge earlier today, slipped so far he sobbed and shoved Stiles away, and Stiles doesn’t want any more sobbing happening tonight. Or shoving, if he can help it.

Even though he’s so curious it’s about to eat through his skin.

Instead of firing off a million questions at Isaac until he at least answers _one_ of them he kisses Isaac’s nose. “Well, good news, right? You’re sick. That’s the only crappy thing that happened. And you got to uh...meet my dad.” Again, apparently.

Isaac looks into his eyes and fuck, Isaac might cry again, his eyes are way too fucking bright. “I. I know him. I knew him before this, I didn’t know that—”

Stiles cuts Isaac off with his mouth. That’s probably not the appropriate response, but he can’t help it. It’s another chaste kiss but it lingers a little longer this time, and he lets his tongue slide against Isaac’s bottom lip, eliciting a tiny whimper. He pulls away, but not far, ignoring the heat radiating from Isaac’s forehead and the uncomfortable way his spine is twisted so he can be right there with Isaac without being on top of him or making him get up. “I want to know. But later. When you’re not here, when you feel comfortable. You have to know that whatever happened—it doesn’t matter. He won’t tell me until you do.”

Isaac keeps his eyes closed, sighs and shudders and then straight-up hugs him around the neck, so so tightly, and Stiles hugs Isaac around his middle, and they just stay like that. Stiles isn’t sure for how long.

He’s breathing in Isaac’s smell, which is kind of entrancing even if he doesn’t feel good, when his dad clears his throat somewhere near the kitchen door. “Son, why don’t you help Isaac upstairs, so he can lay on an actual bed, okay?”

Stiles doesn’t miss the way Isaac stiffens at his dad’s voice. Just slides a hand up his back and into his beautiful hair, running his fingers through it slowly. “Okay, Dad.” Then, more quietly, even though his dad can still probably hear them, “Isaac, do you think you can walk?”

Isaac laughs, and it sounds uncomfortable as hell but at least it’s happening. “Yeah. If...if you help me.”

Stiles nuzzles against Isaac’s face a little, mostly trying to get him to giggle. “Of course I’ll help. There _are_ stairs on the way to my room though. Just so you know before we attempt them.”

It works, and Isaac is laughing against his skin in no time. “Okay. You might have to carry me, though.”

Stiles doesn’t think his back can take that, but it’s not like he has any other options. “C’mon.” He stands and helps Isaac to his feet slowly. The way Isaac sways makes _Stiles_ feel like the one with no balance, and he tucks Isaac’s arm around his shoulders as he snatches up the comforter. His own arm snakes aound Isaac’s waist, holding him tight.

His dad’s standing there by the kitchen door, smiling at them with his arms crossed, and Stiles can taste something coming, he doesn’t know what it is but it’s making him fucking _nervous_ —

“Sir?” Isaac’s voice is so hesitant, so quiet, and Stiles wants to clap his hands over Isaac’s mouth and usher him out, he’s so _desperate_ for Isaac not to feel uncomfortable, for him to be happy.

“Yes, Isaac?” Thank god his dad didn’t call Isaac ‘son’. Fuck Stiles would’ve been so pissed. He can’t even imagine Isaac being comfortable with that, not as terrified as he seems to be.

“I’m sorry. For. For just showing up. Crashing your holiday.” A stiff laugh that Stiles never wants to hear again follows up that sentence. “Thank you for not. A-a...arresting me. Or something.” Wow, yes, Stiles is going to have a panic attack, this conversation needs to _go away_.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, kiddo. I wouldn’t arrest you.” Dad’s look goes pointed, and he motions with two fingers at Isaac, like a Disneyland employee. “You. Didn’t. Do. Anything. Wrong. Okay?” His father looks like he’s trying to prod these words into Isaac’s skin from across the room with each pause, and his eyes are watering and now Stiles’s eyes are watering and he just might throw up because his dad is _not supposed to cry ever_.

Stiles read once that Disneyland employees, employees of the Disney corporation in general, aren’t allowed to point at anything with a single finger ever, because it’s considered rude in some culture or another. He latches on to that, to the thought of asking his father if he was ever employed by Disney, because that’s infinitely better than trying to snap these puzzle pieces together himself and coming up with some completely fucked-up picture that’s nowhere near the truth.

Isaac’s eyes are on the floor. “Okay, sir.”

Stiles really needs to know what the fuck’s going on. Or what happened. He needs to know _something_. He can’t ignore this problem forever.

“Isaac. C’mon.” He needs to get out of this fucking room before he pukes on his own shoes.

It’s slightly slow going and Stiles is so nervous he’s squeezing the balled-up blanket like he’s a kid with a stuffed animal. They walk past his dad without incident, Stiles shooting him a quick nod, and then they’re in the kitchen.

Isaac beams when he sees the flowers, even though he’s nowhere near fully balanced. He kisses Stiles’s cheek, looking for all the world like the purple confection in the window makes him happier than anything he’s ever seen before in his life.

Ms. Melissa nods at them from where she’s starting the coffee pot, and then it’s the stairs.

They’ve never looked steeper, or longer, and Isaac is quietly panting as they make their way up.

He’s shaking by the time they make it to the top, and Stiles is now walking with both arms around his boyfriend’s waist, trying to make sure he doesn’t topple over backwards and kill himself, or both of them.

Stiles thanks the architect for his or her brilliant design, his mother and his father for picking out this house, because his room is about five steps away from the stairs and Isaac is sprawled out on his bed in no time.

God that image is hot as fuck, even if Isaac is sick. His shirt rides up, and Stiles can see the strip of skin between his navel and his actual dick, all muscular and defined, lightly haired, _fuck_ he must be salivating—

“I like your room.” Isaac isn’t looking at him, is instead looking at the walls from Stiles’s twin bed.

Stiles turns his head, looking around with the blanket still clutched to his stomach. “Mm. Haven’t done anything to it since I left for college. You’re seeing high school Stiles.” It’s not someone Stiles liked much at the time, but now he feels pretty fine with the guy. Could’ve been worse.

Isaac slides his shoes off and lets them drop onto the floor without looking. “Hey, high school Stiles apparently liked 1, 2, 3, Hotstreets, Mikky Ekko...I mean, I’d’ve been into him.” Isaac smiles and finally looks at Stiles’s face, head pillowed on Stiles’s pillows and pink-cheeked. It’s probably from sick, but Stiles can dream.

His teenage self would be having a fucking heart attack right about now.

“He’d’ve been into you, too.” Stiles smiles a little, and the look Isaac gives him is a cross between sympathetic and sad that he doesn’t really understand. “Wanna change into some pajamas?”

Isaac scrambles to sit up, muscles impossibly strained under his semi-loose clothing. Stiles swears he can hear Isaac’s heart rate pick up, but maybe that’s just his own. “My backpack! Fuck! Do you—did I have it on me? _Fuck_.” Isaac swallows, licks his lips, starts looking wild-eyed again, and Stiles is on the bed, dropping the comforter beside Isaac without even looking at it, on his knees, taking Isaac’s hands before he can think too much about being shoved away.

“Isaac, it’s downstairs, okay? Want me to go get it and some water?”

Isaac lets out a weak sigh and leans forward against Stiles’s shoulder again. It’s fucking _cute_ , the way Isaac keeps practically snuggling against him, and he snuggles back, earning another giggle. “Yes, please. I can’t believe I _forgot_ about it.”

“Hey, you were kinda busy.” Stiles kisses at Isaac’s hair. “Just lay back down. Take your socks off. I’ll be right back and then you can get changed. Okay?” Stiles’d settled the bag beside the couch, near Isaac’s head while Isaac was semi-conscious, and totally forgot about it two seconds later.

Isaac nods against his shoulder, then quietly, so quietly Stiles could pretend he can’t hear again, “Will you stay up here with me? Until I fall asleep?” One of Isaac’s hands fists in Stiles’s shirt and he smiles, he smiles so fucking happily he should be ashamed of himself.

“I would _love_ to.”

 

While he’s lugging Isaac’s pack up the stairs (and no wonder he’s suffering from exhaustion, this thing has to weigh fifty fucking pounds, but maybe it’s just arm strain) he calls down “taking a nap” to the adults at large, amused beyond reason because he’s _also_ an adult now and he can’t be called back down for a ‘talk’.

They can’t say shit.

Besides, Isaac is sick anyway, if they said anything he’d laugh in their faces.

 

He doesn’t knock, doesn’t think to, so of course he walks in on Isaac facing away from him, towards his bed, slipping his pants down over his thighs. Stiles gasps, and fucking loud, because Isaac wasn’t kidding when he said he didn’t usually wear underwear, holy _fuck_ he has masturbation fodder for the next _year_. That _ass_. “Shitfuck _sorry_ —” He turns his eyes to the ceiling and starts to dive out of the room, but to his complete and utter surprise Isaac _laughs_.

“Close the door and bring my bag over here, you weirdo.” More playful than anything else. Stiles is gonna have a heart attack, he really is.

“Oh, I’m the weirdo, huh? I’m not the one stripping out of my clothes without even locking the door.” Yeah, Stiles’s voice is about ten octaves higher than it ought to be, whatever. He’s looking at the wall as he drops Isaac’s backpack on the bed, and continues to do so even as he hears the zipper unzipping, and fabric shuffling over skin he wants all over him even if it _is_ so dry it’d leech the moisture out of his own in a hot second. A very hot second. Osmosis or something.

“I don’t really lock doors. And look at you, being all chivalrous. Stiles, I’ve had to change in stage wings before, don’t even worry about it.”

Stiles snorts, the sound catching in his throat a little, making him cough awkwardly. “Yeah, no thanks. I’m gonna worry about it. I’d rather the first time I see you naked be...you know. Special or something stupid like that.” How the fuck did they jump to this subject? Wow, he’s just an _idiot_ , Isaac is sick as hell, he doesn’t wanna think or talk about first naked times or—

Oh, hello, those are Isaac’s arms around his waist. Isaac is way too hot against his back, a heavy heat that screams ‘unhealth’, but Stiles leans back into him anyway. “Not stupid.” Isaac kisses Stiles’s neck with his dry lips and a whine squeezes its way out of Stiles’s chest. He turns his head, inviting Isaac to do more, but Isaac just settles his mouth against Stiles’s neck and breathes there as he talks. “‘S nice. It’s really nice. I think I’m maybe falling asleep a little, I’m so _tired_...” Isaac yawns long against his neck and Stiles shivers before turning in Isaac’s arms.

He contemplates the man in front of him for a moment, all long limbs and fucking _sex_ , before leaning to the side so he can reach the water on the bed. “Drink some of this, okay?” He picks up the water, uncaps it, and hands it to Isaac, relieved somewhere in his chest because with Stiles around they won’t be able to add ‘dehydration’ to the list of things wrong with Isaac just yet.

A small rivulet runs down Isaac’s chin as he chugs the thing, not stopping until it’s gone. He doesn’t burp or sigh or make that sweet ‘aaah’ sound, just throws the bottle in the direction of Stiles’s trash can.

Stiles can’t look away long enough to see if he makes it.

“Ten points.” Isaac smiles huge, this brilliant grin that turns Stiles’s insides soupy, and then he blinks slowly, so slowly, like every millisecond his eyes are closed is enough time for a full night’s sleep.

“Okay. Time for bed.” Stiles takes Isaac’s hands, feels over the hot knuckles and admires Isaac in his dust-gray pajama set. “How many pairs of pajamas do you _have_ , anyway?”

Isaac settles on the bed and pulls Stiles down, and suddenly _Stiles_ is being used as a teddy bear. Isaac is curled up against him, head on his chest and arms tucked under his back like he’s trying to leech warmth from Stiles, which would be hilarious if there wasn’t the possibility that Isaac was actually somehow cold. Fever-chill is such a bitch. “Nine. They’re comfortable.”

Stiles reaches over Isaac and spreads the blanket out over them, pinching the end with his socked feet and tugging it over Isaac’s legs. “You’re comfortable. You okay?” He cards his fingers through Isaac’s hair, resisting the urge to kiss the back of Isaac’s neck. There are beads of sweat beginning to accumulate on the skin there, and it pulls at Stiles’s chest, seeing Isaac so ill.

“Mhm. ‘M good. Chest is a good pillow...” And Stiles can’t see Isaac’s face, but he imagines the bruised lids slipping closed slowly, a white line present for a moment between those ridiculous eyelashes before they seal closed completely.

After about ten minutes, Stiles is nowhere near sleep and there’s a puddle of wet accumulating on his chest that’s either sweat or drool. But he lays there anyway, because Isaac’s whimpered three times and he keeps twitching in his sleep, squeezing Stiles’s body lightly.

Stiles closes his eyes and keeps feeling against Isaac’s scalp, trying not to think of anything.

He fails miserably, and doesn’t even register that he’s falling asleep until he’s just about gone.

Then Isaac moves, turns over in his sleep. He comes to rest with his back to Stiles, and Stiles does the natural thing, pressing his front flush with Isaac’s back, tangling their legs together, laying on the arm under him and using the other to pull Isaac flush to him.

He hears a contented sigh that’s punctuated by his name, and then nothing at all for several hours.

 

“Stiles!”

“HUH—” Stiles comes awake all at once, snorting and jumping a little away from the burning body beside him, holy fuck, is he sleeping on a space heater?

A hand’s clapped over his mouth and his dad’s hissing in his ear. Fuck, this feels like a kidnapping. What’s happening? “Happy Thanksgiving, son. Kitchen. Ten minutes. Green bean casserole.”

His dad slips away, scary-quiet for a fifty-something year old man that just had a heart attack. Stiles takes a moment to curl around his boyfriend and rest his head, heart pumping triple-time in his chest. He scoots up the bed a little, brushing Isaac’s hair, damp as can be, away from his face more from guesswork than anything else.

It’s still dark outside. His dad has this five-AM tradition, it’s pretty ridiculous.

He lands a gentle kiss on Isaac’s cheek, and Isaac whimpers and turns his head. Stiles can sense the glints of his eyes trying to search out his face in the dark. “Stiles? What’s happening? Am I sick?”

This would be cute if it didn’t mean that maybe Isaac was developing a brain injury or something. He kisses Isaac’s cheek again, running the backs of his fingers along Isaac’s nose, damp forehead, soothing against it. “Yeah, baby, you’re sick. I gotta go help make food, okay? Just go back to sleep. I’ll come get you when food’s ready, okay?”

Isaac’s hand finds Stiles’s and holds it tightly. “Stay. Until I...until I fall back asleep—” A yawn cracks Isaac’s sentence open and Stiles chuckles quietly in the dark. Isaac murmurs for a second, but lets his words unravel in a way that makes Stiles think he’s too tired to worry about finishing his sentence.

“Will do.” He kisses Isaac’s cheek again, and the happy little release of air he’s rewarded with makes getting up stupid-early worth it.

Not _more_ worth it than whipping up a bunch of Stilinski classics and helping with a bunch of McCall classics or watching the Macy’s Day Parade with his dad and Ms. Melissa. Just _different_ worth it.

In less than three minutes Isaac’s breathing is steady, even, and slow, and his hand relaxes its grip. Stiles kisses Isaac’s face one more time and grabs pajamas from his suitcase, aided by the light from his phone screen. He then locks himself in the bathroom for ten minutes, because not-awake Stiles is grouchy-as-fuck Stiles unless, say, he’s woken up with his favorite coffee and several random steamy-hot pastries from the shop two blocks from campus—

Alright, that’s enough fantasizing about Isaac bringing him breakfast. He washes his face and scrapes all the sleep-grit out, brushes his teeth, and then he’s good to go, wearing his traditional holiday pjs. A dark green t-shirt, so old it’s softer than any other shirt he owns (and see-through in weird places) and red and green plaid flannel pajama pants are perfect for any holiday occasion, he doesn’t care what anyone says.

He trudges downstairs, still blinking sleep out of his eyes, and is greeted with a sight that’s becoming more and more familiar.

Ms. Melissa is sitting on the counter, her short little legs not even hitting the floor, in her stripey pajamas and a bathrobe. There’re fuzzy slippers on her feet and a heavy white mug clasped in her hands. Her face is completely devoid of makeup, and she’s looking at his dad (who is currently feeling up the turkey) like she’s his biggest fan.

It’s a different sort of look than the one that used to grace his mom’s face, but it’s still familiar enough to hurt. He smiles anyway. “Good morning, all.” He rubs at one eye with a fisted hand, yawning so hard his jaw cracks. “Well, let’s get this party started, huh?”

 

Two hours later, the turkey’s in the oven, along with a slow-cooking dish full of scalloped potatoes. Stiles is cooking a huge-ass pot of red potatoes to make literally the best mashed potatoes ever, and Ms. Melissa is putting some kind of gravy-looking stuff in the slow cooker. Stiles is sweating a little, the green t-shirt sticking to his back, but he’s in his zone, and it’s not until Ms. Melissa clears her throat that he turns to see Isaac leaning against the wall on the stairwell, one arm on the banister, panting lightly.

“Hey, baby! What’re you doing out of bed?” He hears a chuckle from the direction of his father, who is shelling peas like a grandmother at the dining room table (which is currently covered in newspaper). He shoots a mini-glare over there without really looking before crossing the room to help Isaac the rest of the way down the stairs. He’s only got two left. “You okay?”

Isaac smiles at him, and it pulls a little at the edges, like it’s painful. “‘M fine. Thirsty. I um...I really _really_ need a shower, but I think my fever broke.”

Ms. Melissa snorts over her gravy and Stiles leans his head against Isaac’s shoulder, not bothering to bring him farther down since it looks like they’re about to be going right back up. Jesus, she’s _exactly_ like her kid. “Yeah, your skin does feel kind of _clammy_.” He glares at her, but his mouth is pinched up in a not-smile, so it’s probably not as effective as it could be.

She giggles some more and sticks her tongue out at him. He returns the gesture, unable to hold in an answering laugh. “Make sure my potatoes don’t burn. Be right back.” He turns to scramble back down the stairs and grab another water bottle, but Ms. Melissa’s at the fridge already, tossing one at him. Her arm is good—too good. It goes flying past him, a little low, and as he turns his head to watch it Isaac’s sick butt moves with a grace divine enough to be angelic. He catches the bottle right by his ankles and Stiles feels his heart _tug_ in his chest. Fuck his boyfriend is so cool.

Isaac straightens up, smiling, and Ms. Melissa’s mouth is hanging open, and Stiles’s dad starts up a slow clap with a pea pod still in hand, and Stiles is standing there soaking all of it in. An overly happy laugh pops out of his mouth, and that’s when Isaac sways back and catches himself on the combination wall/banister.

“Woah. Okay. C’mon. Back to bed with you.” Stiles walks up and takes Isaac’s waist, leaving him to wave at his admirers as they head back up the stairs.

They make it to Stiles’s room without another word, and Stiles picks up Isaac’s backpack. It seems lighter than it did yesterday, so yeah, probably just muscle strain that made him wonder if it was full of bricks yesterday.

It should be weird that they aren’t talking, but somehow it’s comfortable. He’s not supporting Isaac as much as he was yesterday—more like helping him keep his balance. He drops Isaac’s pack on the bathroom floor gently, and Isaac smiles at him and leans into him for a moment at the door.

“You know, you could come in with me, if you wanted.”

Stiles’s eyes go huge in his head and he pulls back to look Isaac in the face, trying to gauge his level of seriousness.

Isaac has this _smirk_ on his face, this smirk that’s more like a dare, and Stiles thinks about it for a second. He really, seriously considers it.

He leans forward and kisses Isaac on the lips, wanting desperately to deepen it and make himself forget there’s even a question of whether or not he _should_ because he fucking wants to.

He pulls away just as Isaac leans in, and laughs a quiet laugh that doesn’t even have a trace of humor in it. “You know, I could. And I want to. But I probably shouldn’t. Potatoes get overcooked, dinner’s just _ruined_ , you know?” He wraps his arms around Isaac’s waist and hugs him close for a moment, hoping that he didn’t just fuck up royally.

Isaac’s smiling when he pulls away, though, so it can’t be that bad. “Okay. But if I crack my head open in the shower it’s entirely your fault.” He kisses Stiles’s stunned lips and then slips into the bathroom and shuts the door in his face.

 

When Stiles makes it back downstairs he’s blushing.

 

He deals with the sudden cavalcade of questions about Isaac to the best of his abilities, considering he doesn’t know the answers to half of them. Finally he appeases these incredibly prying people that he’s for some reason willing to spend time with by telling them to ask _Isaac_ if they’re so curious about all this random shit.

His dad makes a kind of huffing noise and goes back to shelling peas (so _fucking_ slowly), but Ms. Melissa grins, and Stiles feels the trouble brewing already.

She’s gonna ask whatever the fuck she wants. Shit.

She’s him in high school, before he learned tact. God, Isaac is gonna stab her with a fork and run out.

Or just run out.

He takes the pot off the stove, muscles straining again as he pours the potatoes and hot water into the sink. There’s a large colander already waiting. He tries to soothe his overactive brain through cooking.

When Stiles cooks, he wings it, unless he’s baking. Yeah, this amount of cream looks good, ooh, look, butter! Some seasoning, dunno what that is but it smells good...

It should be a disaster, but he usually winds up with some pretty awesome culinary masterpieces Chef Gordon Ramsay couldn’t bat an eyelash at. By the time Isaac wanders back downstairs with his soggy hair and way too spiffy clothes, Stiles is sitting on a dining chair with the huge copper pot between his legs, smushing the potatoes with the ancient Stilinski potato smasher.

“Can I help at all?” Isaac sounds lost, and he looks pretty out of place, too. He has to’ve noticed everyone else is in pajamas—why would he’ve changed into a christmas pine-green sweater and cinnamon-colored tweed pants? Not that Stiles is complaining, he looks sexy as fuck, just so...formal.

Then Stiles takes in the rest of him and realizes his feet are bare. He smiles up at Isaac, feels the smile growing to epic proportions until he’s probably displaying his back molars to the room at large. “I dunno, how about we ask the nurse?” He raises an eyebrow at Ms. Melissa and she raises one back at him, tongue playing over her top teeth under her lip.

“You know, I think you’re probably okay to help. Just don’t _cough_ on anyone or try to pick the turkey up. No macho antics, young man.”

To Stiles’s (everyone’s) surprise, Isaac pulls up a chair beside his _dad_ and starts shelling peas. Quickly and efficiently. Finally. “Yes ma’am.” He’s not looking at anything but the peas, and his whole body’s tensed, like any second Stiles’s dad is gonna come out of the seat and wallop the shit out of him.

Stiles laughs, long and bright and loud, making all of them jump, and then they get back to work.

He listens to his dad talk to Isaac without looking like he is. His tongue is sticking out of his lips, and his brow is tensed, as if in concentration.

“We were just asking Stiles here—what’s your major, kiddo?”

Isaac raises an eyebrow at Stiles, and then speaks quietly. All Stiles can think is ‘polite’, and it’s almost too perfect a picture. Something’s not quite right here. “I think he knows what it is? I’m a Dance major with a minor in Ballet. I’m a junior, but it’ll probably be another two years until I graduate with all the extra requirements. Sir.”

Dad nods like that didn’t just sound like Mandarin Chinese to him. “Impressive. What’s your GPA?”

“ _Dad_.” He wasn’t going to say anything, but this is a little far.

Isaac’s answering anyway, though. “3.6; technically an A.” Isaac’s bottom lip is starting to get roughed up by his top teeth, and it’s a little distracting.

“You didn’t even ask me _my_ GPA. What was yours when you were in school, dad?” Stiles opens his mouth wide and tilts his head, though it’s kind of hard to exude ‘gotcha’ while he’s thumping potatoes into paste.

His dad looks at Melissa, quickly, and then speaks more to the peas than the rest of them. “Mmm 2.5...”

Isaac nods at him, though tentatively. “That’s still a ‘B’. Not bad.”

Ms. Melissa’s snorting a little, though, so Stiles decides to go in for the kill. “What was _yours_ , huh?”

She shuts up immediately. “Isaac, honey, how do you feel about shaving chocolate?”

“Hey, you said I was gonna get to do that!” The expression on his father’s face is nothing less than petulant and Stiles wants to reach across the table and _shake him_. His father is acting like a jealous two-year-old. He’s totally lovestruck and it’s _gross_.

And, okay, kind of sweet, too, but Stiles can be frustrated with it if he wants to be.

“Well, that was before we got a slightly less buff helper.” She flashes Dad a wide smile and brings over a grater and a huge-ass block of dark chocolate that she must’ve brought over yesterday, Stiles would’ve been all over that, that shit would’ve been _gone_.

“Yeah, Dad, my boyfriend gets to help with dessert, what _now_? Uh.” Stiles nods his head at Ms. Melissa, pulling his bottom lip up and squinting to try to look like a mobster, and Isaac grins wide at him, so wide his eyes go slitted, and Stiles forgets what he’s doing for a second and dings the side of the pot hard enough to dent it and send a reverb up his arms.

 

Eight side-dishes, one broken whisk, a half-pound of peas, and six gallons of cream later, they’re all sitting around the table, looking super pleased with themselves and also exhausted. Stiles and Isaac set the table for four. Isaac’d actually tried to set the table formally, with two different forks and everything, and Stiles just kissed him and explained that everybody got one fork, one spoon, one plate, and a paper towel roll.

Now they’ve all gotten portions of everything, there are desserts cooling on the counter, and Isaac looks full and happy even though he hasn’t even taken a bite yet.

His dad looks at Isaac, a bemused expression on his face. Isaac is sitting between Stiles and Ms. Melissa, putting him dead across the table from the senior Stilinski.

Isaac, who is in the spot where Stiles’s mom used to sit, but Stiles isn’t thinking about that. This should be so much easier.

Will it ever get fucking easier?

“Isaac, would you like to say grace?”

Stiles’s whole face twists in incredulity, his mouth slowly forming the word ‘what’. Since when have they fucking said _grace_? They’ve _never_ said grace, not even when his mom was alive.

“Um. N-No sir. I don’t really know how.” Isaac is looking in his lap, shamefaced, and Stiles just barely resists the urge to snatch a leg off the turkey and beat his father to death with it.

His dad lets out a long sigh of relief and laughs a little. “No, no, son, I was only asking ‘cause if you wanted to you _could_. We don’t—that’s not really a Stilinski thing. We go around the table and say what we’re thankful for.”

Isaac brightens considerably and doesn’t seem to notice that Stiles is a thundercloud of death over his father acting like an _ass_. “Oh. Okay. I can do that.” Isaac looks around without moving his head though, and speaks in a tiny quiet voice. “Uh. Will someone else start though?”

His dad laughs a little, then nods. “Okay. I will. Then Stiles, then Melissa, then you. That work?”

Isaac nods, doesn’t even tack the ‘yes sir’ onto the end. Progress. Stiles feels less lightning-y.

“Alright. So I’m thankful for all this amazing food, and everything great I’ve eaten in the past year.” Stiles smiles. His dad always says this. “I’m thankful for my son, and how amazing he’s turning out.” Stiles’s look goes soft. He always says that, too. “I’m thankful for good friends and old friends and new friends.” He tips his head towards Isaac and Stiles watches the smile start up on Isaac’s face, something it looks like he has no idea how to deal with. “I’m thankful for...for you, Melissa.” He smiles at her, close to tears, and Stiles wants to hide, because he’s getting ready to cry, too. “I’m thankful for Isaac, too, because it seems like he’s making my son really happy, and Stiles deserves that.” He blinks a few times, looking like the oldest man in the world, and Stiles reaches out and puts a hand on his dad’s shoulder, forcing down tears. Ms. Melissa’s eyes are swimming and she’s holding his hand.

Isaac completely leaves Stiles’s mind for a moment.

“You go, honey. I need to shut up before I say something stupid.”

Ms. Melissa makes a ‘well duh’ face and smiles at the table at large, wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand before she actually talks. She sniffs loudly. “Okay. Okay. I’m thankful for silly Sheriffs who make speeches at Thanksgiving about how much they love everyone around them, and I’m thankful for the wonderful modern technology that is double bypass surgery, I’m thankful for my amazing boys, one of whom is here, and for one boy’s amazing girl, who he better not be getting pregnant right now. And I’m thankful to have Isaac here, my other boy’s boy. Oh, and also for those new insoles Scott just sent me, they are ah-maaa-zing.” She smiles bright, silly, and nods at Stiles. “Sorry, we went a little out of order, huh? Go for it, Stiles.”

This is the first time in 22 years Stiles hasn’t gone after his dad, and he’s not even upset or hurt or worried about the future or getting shoved out of his dad’s life or being forced to forget his mom.

He’s just grateful.

“I’m thankful for every person in this room, and all my friends at school, and Sondheim and Rowling and Stephen King.” Isaac’s been staring at the turkey like a vegetable (ha ha) but his head perks up at that, a slow smile spreading across his face. “I’m thankful for my amazing parents and my wonderful surrogate.” He flashes a smile at Ms. Melissa and then looks Isaac dead in the face. “But more than anything else in the whole _world_ I’m thankful for coffee.”

Stiles can see his dad mouth the world ‘coffee’ with that sideways stretched ‘what the fuck is he talking about’ squint in his eye, but he really doesn’t care. At all.

Because Isaac’s smiling. Like he means it, like he’s about to burst.

“Isaac, you go.” Stiles reaches out a hand and Isaac takes it, squeezing hard.

He starts off tentative, sounding a little lost. “I’m...I’m thankful for...” Something clicks behind his eyes and his smile returns to full wattage. “Dogs. I’m thankful for dogs and Greyhound buses and Erica and Scott and Vernon and getting to meet Stiles’s family and...and to Stiles for inviting me and...and existing pretty much. For um...for...Mr. Stilinski. And Ms. Melissa. Thanks for...thanks. For.” The next words are so quiet Stiles can barely hear it, and it _tugs_ in his chest. “For giving me a chance.” Isaac smiles down at his lap and Stiles can _feel_ all of them wanting to reach out and just hug his beautiful (oh my god is it beautiful though) ass, but Stiles is the only one who gets to, and he straight-up stands and hugs Isaac tight to him.

Isaac puts a hand on his arm and laughs a low relieved laugh, hugs him back the best he can with his entire head being hugged, and then Stiles kisses his hair and sits back down.

He pushes up imaginary sleeves and picks up his fork. “Alright, enough of this sap show. Let’s eat.”

 

For some reason, even through half-full mouths, his dad and Ms. Melissa insist on grilling Isaac.

“So, do you have a job, son?” His dad raises an eyebrow and shoves another forkful of mashed potatoes in his mouth.

Isaac shakes his head. “My course load this semester was crazy, I had to leave my job. Still volunteer at the ASPCA though.” Stiles’s dad nods, looking pleased as hell, and Stiles can’t help but roll his eyes.

Ms. Melissa leans her head to the side, and _jesus_ what now. “It was really nice of you to come all the way down here. How come you’re not spending the holiday with your family though, hon?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [My tumblr](http://unfortunateirises.tumblr.com/), for those who're interested. I'll give you guys a heads-up on there when we update again.


	9. A Place Where No One's Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An awkward question leads to an awkward (and rather incomplete) answer. Isaac forgets he's sick long enough to give Stiles a handjob and very quietly gets over feeling ill while hanging out with Stiles's dad, which should probably suck a lot more than it does. SPAU awaits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As is becoming the (spectacular) norm, beta'd by [spiffingbeansalad](http://spiffingbeansalad.tumblr.com/)/Pippa/[Strangeredlantern](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Strangeredlantern). Henceforth I will just call her 'Pippa', and the link in the author's notes will take you straight to her tumblr.
> 
> I'm gonna be super lame and corny and say that there's no specific chapter dedication on this one because it's to you, the person reading these words and hearing (or seeing, you know, whatever you do) them in your head. You have read over 60K of my work so far. And you're still here.
> 
> There are no words to express how thankful I am, or how awesome you are. Shine on, you awesome fucking diamond, you.
> 
> Very vanilla porn below. Also a single slur, 'slut', context implies it was once used in a derogatory way at a very vague point in Isaac's past.

Isaac focuses on a shred of basil settled within the cheese sauce of his scalloped potatoes. The whole world is tilting slowly sideways without moving at all and he can hear his own breathing but not much else.

The Sheriff (no no stop it _Stiles’s dad_ ) is looking away from all of them.

Isaac is pretty sure it’s because he knows what’s coming.

He licks his lips, paper-dry and starting to peel. His mouth is moist from the food smells even though he’s not particularly hungry, and that’s another thing he’s grateful for.

He looks up at Stiles, the polite curiosity on his face, and then at Ms. Melissa, all expectant and motherly in a way he’s so unused to it threatens to strangle him and keep him from saying anything at all.

“Uh.” He looks at his lap. What the fuck is he supposed to say? Seriously, how in the _hell_ is he supposed to handle this? Is there any way to _avoid_ it? “They’re all kind of unavailable.” His hands grip and squeeze the air over his knees. There’s no way that’s gonna work.

“Oh?” He can fucking hear the smile in Ms. Melissa’s voice and it makes him want to _run_ , but leaving this house is not an option and he’d probably barely make a mile before collapsing. “What’re they so busy with?”

Fuck. He has to do it. He _has_ to. He’s not gonna come up with some elaborate lie that he has to carry throughout his and Stiles’s relationship. He should’ve already told the guy. He looks up, making eye contact with Stiles in silent apology, and then looks back to the turkey as he murmurs quietly. If he has to repeat himself he’s probably going to tense and then explode.

He likes to pretend he doesn’t explode anymore.

“They’re...dead.” His eyes flick back up to Ms. Melissa, a wide smile stuck on her face, to Stiles, now only appearing polite, but not interested—did he already _know_? The Sheriff has his palm over his mouth, one elbow on the table, head turned so far Isaac can’t even see his face for sitting right across from him.

Ms. Melissa swallows a few times, then addresses him, no hint of a smile now, just regret and worry clear in her wrinkled brow and too-large eyes. “Oh. Oh honey. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—to bring that up.”

Isaac shakes his head just barely, smiling a fake little stunted smile. “It’s okay.” He looks away quickly, pokes at his food.

His appetite is also pretty damn dead.

He feels warm fingers wrapping around his own and he looks up to see Stiles’s perfectly blank expression. A small smile flits across that mouth and is gone, and Isaac tries to smile back but he’s having trouble.

He doesn’t even try to eat anymore, he’s more than finished. He just sits there through the awkward fork-scraping around him and squirms like the coward he is, begging silently for someone to break the silence.

“Oh, hey. Dad, I never told you about auditions, did I?” Stiles squeezes his fingers, gives him a little sideways smile, and Isaac’s chest aches.

It’s...hard. To sit through Stiles’s enthusiastic retelling, to hear all the things he missed at auditions and about all of Stiles’s friends. To know that the sideways looks the Sheriff keeps slipping him are because he already knew, and he probably feels really awful.

Isaac just wants to slide under the table and disappear, he really honestly wants to evaporate right now more than he’s ever wanted to before, and that’s really fucking saying something.

“And oh my god, this one girl comes on, this girl with blonde hair and big brown eyes we could see from all the way back, we were like sixth row Dad and her _eyes_ —but anyway and she gets on and lets it fucking rip and _it’s that girl_. From Club Fenris? With the dancing?” Stiles is squirming in his seat, really getting into his retelling, and he looks over at Isaac, the delicate skin on his cheeks staining red. “Uh. I told my dad about that. The dancing stuff. By the way.” Stiles rubs the back of his neck with his free hand and Isaac smiles, all soft and contemplative.

He ghosts the pads of his fingers over Stiles’s knuckles, still smiling, now down at his lap. “Well, go on. Tell them how awesome she was.” Isaac looks up, just for a second, and half makes eye contact with Ms. Melissa before he’s looking back down. “Uh. She—we know each other. From high school. She’s a really good friend of mine.”

He’s not sure how he feels about Stiles completely avoiding the subject of his dead family, if he’s grateful or hurt, so he decides to just keep moving forward like it didn’t happen.

After he consciously makes the decision, it’s sickeningly easy to ignore.

Isaac is reminded again; he is getting way too good at forgetting.

Stiles squeezes his hand and when he chances a look up through his eyelashes Stiles is beaming at him. “Yeah, her name’s Erica, and she was freakin’ spectacular. I wouldn’t be surprised if she got Éponine.”

Stiles’s dad finally pipes up, pointing with his fork across the table at Stiles and gesturing with it like he’s a conductor. “Now, is she the one that dies in the beginning or the one Marius goes doofy over within two seconds of meeting her?”

Stiles firmly high-fives his face. “ _Dad_.”

 

Stiles tries to explain the logistics of Les Mis to his dad for another half-hour, and it’s the sweet and funny but a little cringe-worthy, if Isaac’s honest. Stiles keeps groaning, and every time his dad looks more and more offended, saying things like ‘Why are you telling me about this Mario guy when I’m asking about Colette?’

Isaac is laughing so hard his stomach hurts, and he finally reaches up to brush tears out of his eyes as Stiles tries desperately for the fifth time to explain the whole Éponine/Marius/Cosette thing. Ms. Melissa is howling on Isaac’s other side, and she gives him a fond little smile between bouts of laughter. There’s not even a hint of pity.

He feels relieved without knowing why.

“NO Dad, oh my god, come _on_ , you’re totally just messing with me, it’s not that complicated! Éponine is Thénardier’s daughter, Gavroche’s sister, and she and Cosette knew each other when they were—”

“Stiles.” Isaac’s voice is full of amusement, and Stiles turns to him looking harried, like he has no idea how this can not be getting through. “Babe, you’re trying way too hard.” He faces Stiles’s dad, really and truly, for the first time since he passed out. Meets his eyes. Squeezes Stiles’s hand way too fucking hard under the table.

“Cosette is the blonde one. The one who sings about a castle on the cloud at the beginning? She’s the one Marius is into, and she’s into him back. Éponine is the one with the brown hair, who likes Marius. Marius doesn’t like her back. They’re friends.” They’re all kind of staring at him and he’s doing his best to ignore it. He nods firmly and smiles at Stiles again. “See? Not that hard.”

“You called me ‘babe’ in front of my dad.” Stiles is staring at him, lost and fond and too sweet for Isaac’s own good, and then he blinks a few times and tosses his head from side to side like a confused horse, like he suddenly can’t decide if he wants to talk to Isaac or his Dad. “No. No. You’re not telling me after that little bit of information—”

“Oh..” The word is exaggerated, over-long, and Isaac abruptly realizes that the Sheriff has been fucking with Stiles this whole time. “Thanks, kiddo.”

The Sheriff winks at Melissa, and Isaac thinks that he maybe knows where Stiles got the ‘acting’ thing from. He doesn’t know whether to be pissed or impressed, and winds up a vague combination of both.

Isaac bursts out laughing. He can’t help it. It’s pinching in his chest and it kind of _hurts_ , how few fucks he gives about what he calls Stiles in front of his father. Suddenly the Sheriff is laughing too, the sound cuts through the air like a whipcrack, and Isaac is straight-up cackling because now Stiles is looking between the both of them, totally lost, Ms. Melissa is chuckling politely and shrugging a little and it’s just a clusterfuck, it feels like a trainwreck, but it also feels _good_.

Finally Isaac sits back, breathing hard, at the same time as the Sheriff, both wiping tears from their eyes. Damn, he needed that. Some kind of release, anything, so the static inside won’t build up into a lightning strike.

“What’s so funny?” Stiles’s face is threatening to close off, like a door slowly easing shut all by itself. It’s probably mostly because he has no idea what the fuck is going on, but Isaac can’t think about it if he wants this to go any kind of smooth.

Through the last of his laughter he kisses the back of Stiles’s hand, casually shrugging with a half-smile plastered on his face. “That is nowhere near the worst thing that’s ever happened in front of him, don’t worry.”

Okay, that was the wrong thing to say. Stiles’s face closes off, those beautiful honey-colored eyes draining from their normal animation into blankness. Isaac can almost hear the latch sliding home. “Okay.” Then Stiles goes back to eating and doesn’t say another word.

Isaac’s stomach balls up on itself and he doesn’t move but to stroke Stiles’s hand, hoping some semblance of the person he’s come to know will melt back behind his pupils, but it doesn’t happen.

Ms. Melissa and the Sheriff don’t seem to notice, and Isaac’s stomach is now a roly-poly in full defense mode. How do they not see it? How’re they missing this?

Finally, blessedly, Ms. Melissa burps, long and so loud Isaac hallucinates that it shakes the glassware. The Sheriff claps, Stiles claps, and she declares that it’s probably time to put the food away. The Sheriff takes this as his cue to stand and dig around in what looks like a cabinet stuffed so full of tupperware it’s all about to come pouring down.

He stands up and braces himself to help even though he’s wobbling pretty hard, but Stiles gives him a _look_ , one that he remembers very vaguely from his childhood. He automatically hunches down, and his eyes widen as he asks ‘what did I do wrong’ without saying a word.

“Baby. You can barely stand.” Stiles stands up, kisses Isaac’s cheek. “Go lay down. I’ll be there after we’re done.”

 

Laying down by himself is the worst thing Isaac can possibly do right now, but he goes, because Stiles told him to. He relaxes against the bedding on the side where Stiles slept, on top of the wadded up covers. He should make the bed, he should _absolutely_ make the bed, but he really doesn’t have the energy. He yawns, so wide his jaw cracks, and then leans over to dig around under Stiles’s bed until he finds his pants, and, by extension, his phone.

**Erica** : north dakota jackass  
 **Erica** : stopping for the night not dead  
 **Erica** : minnesota motherfucker  
 **Erica** : cheesy state bitch happy thanksgiving

He smiles and taps out a few texts, one to Erica and one to Vernon. They both say the same thing.

**Me** : Happy turkey day not dead at Stiles’s thanks for your concern 

Then he sits back and waits for the flood of text messages.

His phone doesn’t make a sound.

He sighs and puts the phone on Stiles’s nightstand. The image is striking. Striking enough that about a dozen realizations flash through his brain at a mile a minute.

He came to Stiles’s house to meet his dad. He’s laying in Stiles’s bed right now. He fucking offered to shower with Stiles and didn’t for a second feel any worry at Stiles seeing him totally naked, not with Stiles actually standing there, at least.

His cell phone is on someone else’s _fucking_ night stand in a town he hates at 2 pm on Thanksgiving.

Oh god he’s probably falling in love with Stiles Stilinksi.

He rolls over and covers his head with his hands, sinking down into pillows that smell like Stiles and like his own sick-sweat, stomach doing stupid crazy flopping things that it’s not supposed to do ever, he’s gonna throw up. This is too much. Everything is hazing out.

And then there’s a warm hand on the skin of his lower back. He didn’t realize his sweater’d gotten pushed up, but apparently that happened. Fingers soothe against his skin, and it’s far enough down that Isaac knows he doesn’t have to worry about shiny pink and white lines that would make Stiles’s stomach turn, far enough that Isaac can just bask, let his eyes slide slowly shut at the slightly ticklish but soothing pressure.

“Isaac?”

“Mmm?”

“How’re you feeling?”

Isaac rolls his shoulders, considers the question, and finally turns his head to actually look at Stiles. Stiles sitting there beside him in the grey-blue light coming from the window, smiling down at the sliver of back exposed, somehow not looking washed out at all. He turns over onto his side and Stiles doesn’t lift up his hand, so he winds up with his fingers against the slight and mostly angular swell of Isaac’s hip. “Pretty good now.” Isaac lets his eyes linger over Stiles’s lips, an easy smile shaping his own.

Stiles takes his cue and leans down, delivering a chaste but still warm kiss, and then leans back up and feels farther up Isaac’s body, over his ribs. Isaac tries so hard not to tense, but he fails, and Stiles sighs and slips his hand back down before Isaac can consciously react.

“Hey, no, you don’t have to—” Isaac catches Stiles’s hand, drags it back up his body, and _shivers_. “I just, I’m not used to it. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want you to.”

There’s laughter under the warm blanket of Stiles’s voice, and it has Isaac blushing without knowing why. “Don’t want me to what, exactly?” Stiles runs his fingers under Isaac’s clothes in a wide arc, which of course makes Isaac fist his hands and breathe all strained and weird.

“To stop doing that. It feels good.” Isaac has to smile at the tone of his own voice. He sounds ridiculous, like some sexed-up teenager who’s never been touched before, all half-begging and breathless. This is hilarious. Stiles is in pajamas, Isaac is in ‘holiday formal’, Isaac is still weak and sick as hell, Stiles has none of the information he wants, and yet Isaac is totally certain they’re about to just lose themselves in each other the same way they had a few days ago, like _crazy people_. Fuck.

“Okay.” Stiles’s voice is so low, it’s fucking criminal, this is so unfair. His hand stops splayed out against Isaac’s ribs and Isaac can sense the scars it’s settled over, but Stiles isn’t even flinching. “Can I ask you something?”

Oh fuck. Here it comes. When did your parents die. How did they die. Do you have any other family. Why didn’t you tell me. What happened to make you hate this place so much. Isaac’s stomach swooshes up and for the first time in about twenty minutes he remembers that he’s sick, that he fucked up and was an asshole to his body and now he’s being punished for it. It’s not so much that the walls go melty or that he can’t focus on Stiles’s face, it’s more like the inside of his head gets runny, and he feels the weakness in his limbs so intensely he could close his eyes and pass out like right now, like immediately, like he has to force himself not to because Stiles doesn’t deserve it. He forces himself to say ‘sure’, trying to keep his breathing even, because he has to give Stiles something, he knows that, he’s not stupid.

“Why’d you change into these clothes, babe? I mean, come on now, you’re wearing a belt.”

‘Babe’ again. And Stiles is smiling at him so fucking sincerely, god.

He turns over onto his back, runs his hands up Stiles’s forearm. “Honestly? I wanted to make a better impression than I did yesterday. I mean, I’m never gonna live this down.” It’s true, he knows it’s true. They’ll all always remember that the first time Isaac ever came to Stiles’s house, it was on foot, alone, and through very stalker-like circumstances.

Not to mention this is the first time Isaac has ‘met the parents’ in any way at all and he does _this_?

“Hey, you don’t have to worry about that.” Stiles’s fingers trail over to the center of his chest. “My dad gets it.” Stiles’s voice is near-hollow, and Isaac wishes he was worse at reading faces, at telling when someone’s holding something back.

“Stiles?”

Stiles makes full eye contact with him for the first time in hours, and there’s a little piece missing in his eyes, something Isaac kind of needs to feel like he’s talking to Stiles. It sets his resolve, and even though it’s turning his stomach to even think about, he has to tell Stiles. He _has_ to.

“I’ll tell you. I’ll—I’ll try.” He opens his mouth to start, no fucking clue what’s going to come out first because he’s never _done_ this, and then Stiles’s mouth is over it, they’re kissing fierce, passionate, hard in a way that presses his air out and makes him dizzy in seconds.

They pull away gasping and Stiles trails hot kisses down his neck, near-bruising kisses that burn him up inside more intensely than being sick could ever hope to because Stiles…

Stiles is way better equipped to take him apart than some stupid fever.

“Baby— _baby_ —Stiles, Stiles stop—” Fuck, what? What’s he saying that for? Stiles’s searching hungry mouth against his skin is probably the best thing he’s ever felt, why is he saying ‘stop’?

And now Stiles is looking at him like he just took all the light out of the world, took all the light and crushed it between his thin small ugly swollen fingers, fuck, fuck, fuck everything. Stiles is panting and he’s taking back his hand and Isaac wants to cry, wants to cry for the second time in two years, but he reaches out and catches Stiles’s fingers before they go…wherever they’re going.

He has to know. “Why don’t you want to know? Why won’t you let me tell you? Don’t you care?” He’s not surprised at how hollow his own voice sounds.

This is the opposite of what he should be doing. If Stiles is letting him avoid it, he should _fucking avoid it for as long as possible_. At least until they get back to school.

If he starts running while he’s here there’s no guarantee where he’ll end up.

And Stiles is looking at him like he knows somehow, like he knows the running is a thing, like he knows that Isaac can’t possibly handle anymore than he’s already forced himself to. And also like pieces of his skin are being ripped off, if the way he’s half-flinching is any indication. “Isaac. Of course I care. I—I wanna ask, okay? I have a million questions, I have so many questions and I care so fucking much, I care a lot, I just don’t want you to talk about it here. My house is safe, my house is our safe place, but I want you to be at yours when you tell me.”

Stiles’s face comes to rest an inch in front of his own, and all he can see is dark brown eyes, so dark, even though Stiles’s eyes usually fall into ‘honey’ or ‘golden’ tones. Must be the light.

“This is really hard for you, isn’t it?” Isaac can’t remember Stiles not asking when he wants to. The fact is, Isaac is curious as hell about what, specifically, Stiles wants to know, and he wants to give him all the answers, he’s just not properly equipped to right now.

Stiles smiles, hard, dips his face into Isaac’s neck and lets out a strained little laugh that makes Isaac squirm, because it’s released right against his skin. “You have no idea.”

Isaac brings up Stiles’s hand, kisses the back of it and over each knuckle. “You know, I could help distract you…”

Stiles shifts, picks himself up and lays down against the line of Isaac’s body, one arm worming under his shoulders. “Yeah, I bet you could.” A playful little smile flits across Stiles’s face and Isaac squirms until they’re laying nose-to-nose. “Have something in mind?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” He kisses Stiles’s mouth, just barely, before forcing his tired limbs into motion. “Just let me change first.”

Stiles snorts. “This would be so much easier if you just wore pajamas to Thanksgiving dinner like a normal person.”

“I think we’ve established that I don’t do anything like a normal person.”

 

“Holyfuck, oh—oh god, _Isaac_ —”

Stiles is lasting longer this time, and Isaac is completely okay with that. Stiles’s dad and Scott’s mom are down for a nap after all that fucking food, Isaac is in comfortable pjs and getting his cock stroked…

As far as he’s concerned he can stay like this, legs wrapped around Stiles’s, one hand down his pants and the other teasing at his nipple under his shirt, mouth slicking over Stiles’s neck in a conscious effort to keep him squirming.

The people he tends to pick, his usual ‘type’, are not people who would ever be into mutual masturbation. They’re all about ‘let’s do this, let’s get this over with, get me off get me off get me off’. He apparently has a thing for impatience. Isaac’s made himself come when giving someone a hand job, sure, he’s done this for _himself_ , but it’s honestly kind of weird for him to have someone working at him while he works at them.

Weird and _distracting_ , but amazing. He keeps losing himself in the feeling, in Stiles’s fingers running over his skin like his dick is something sacred, a semi-hilarious concept that makes him shiver all the same.

“You like it Isaac? Huh? Huh, do you like it, is it good?”

And Stiles makes so fucking much noise, like he’s not even worried about what would happen if someone hears them, for fuck’s sake they’re at his _dad’s_ house. Isaac personally isn’t in the mood to be shot, but then Stiles changes his rhythm, slows down and tightens up just minutely and straining silver lightning crackles over his spine and across his shoulders and he pants and whines low into Stiles’s shoulder before pulling up and spilling words against his skin, half-whispering because he’s not a goddamn lunatic “oh oh don’t _stop_ Stiles yeah, yeah, just like that—”

And Stiles, amazing asshole that he is, slows down just a touch more and suddenly Isaac is coming apart, he had no idea his body even wanted the pacing like that but apparently it does, and his own strokes on Stiles become a little faster as he grits his teeth and just shoves his face into Stiles’s neck, pants hot against his skin and shivers as he feels his own body tighten, tighten, tighten, get ready to _release_ —

“ _Yes_.” It hisses through Stiles’s teeth and Isaac feels the word worm its way down his spine, slither into his deepest gut and trigger his release.

He feels himself spill hot over Stiles’s hand, and he’s shaking and mewling without actually making noise, more like open-mouth panting with just a hint of a whimper against that long, amazing neck. Stiles lets him shake it out for god knows how long, petting at his hair, and when Isaac relaxes he goes soupy all over and officially remembers that he’s sick as hell, but it’s not like he wants to stop _now_.

Stiles is laying right here, hard and beautiful and aching for his release, Isaac can feel it in the way Stiles is pulsing in his hand, and he turns more into Stiles’s neck, opens his mouth, _bites_ without thinking about it. Not hard enough to bruise, just hard enough to leave the impression of teeth, of harm that could’ve come but didn’t, and Stiles is suddenly clutching at his hair, tugging it in a way Isaac had no idea that he liked.

“Isaac, Isaac, ‘m almost there, I’m so fucking close _fuck_ fuck fuck yeah, come on, come on, oh _please_ Isaac—”

And Isaac works him through every shiver, every incoherent moan, until finally Stiles is panting and shaking and now just holding him, arms wrapped around him tightly as his come oozes over Isaac’s knuckles in a way that should be freakishly unpleasant but is absolutely not.

Isaac kisses at Stiles’s neck as they both come down from it, fatigued limbs now full of static and delicious warmth that’s lulling him down into sleep before they’ve even cleaned up. He hears Stiles whisper something, sounding so blissed out it makes Isaac close his eyes and exhale long and slow, like he’s gonna cry if he doesn’t make himself calm down.

“Isaac...you’re so beautiful...”

Stiles keeps saying it like it’s nothing, just throwing it out there, and Isaac’s gotten ‘sexy’ and ‘fine’ and ‘hot’ and ‘fucking nasty’ but ‘beautiful’ is new enough that it opens up a fresh ache in his chest, in a place that’s not quite as deep as ‘slut’ but pretty close.

And the way Stiles says his _name_ during, practically fucking constantly...

Isaac nuzzles farther against Stiles’s body, finally releasing his cock and slicking the come along the inside of Stiles’s boxers, unable to keep himself from snickering at the slightly wet ‘thump’ of the wet elastic hitting Stiles’s lower stomach. He wraps his arms around Stiles just to hear “Fuck. I think I got come on your pajamas.”

Isaac snorts and nuzzles his face along the whole length of Stiles’s like a cat, smiling into the warm skin. “Yeah, you got come on my hand, too, I’m not complaining.” Isaac is comfortable, Isaac is happy—

Woah. Hey. Isaac is happy. Completely content. He doesn’t want for anything in this moment, not even to be back on campus, even though only a half-day ago that was all he was wishing for, to be back home. If he was home he wouldn’t be with Stiles, and if he wasn’t with Stiles, then he wouldn’t be happy anymore. 

 

After they’ve cleaned up and cuddled back down under Stiles’s comforter, Isaac traces his fingers over Stiles’s closed eyelids, trying to hold himself awake. “Mmm. You look like a statue. Like marble. The light’s all weird.” His voice is slurring a little, and when Stiles nods out the window Isaac doesn’t really think about it.

He turns over, leans back as Stiles holds him close, enjoying the way their bodies fit even though he never would've expected he could be little spoon comfortably, as long as he is. “I like the way you feel, Stiles.” His lazy, tired eyes finally locate the window, likely what Stiles was pointing out.

“See. All dark outside even though it’s like three in the afternoon.” Stiles kisses his neck lightly and Isaac shivers, drawing Stiles’s arm more firmly over his own chest.

“Mhm. Overcast. Big cloud blanket.” Isaac’s eyes are finally drifting closed, and this time there’s no way to stop it, he’s fading down, the last image in his mind that of a November sky that should probably look dreary, but only seems comfortable somehow.

 

The next two days are weird, but good. They live exclusively on Thanksgiving leftovers, and spend a lot of time with Stiles’s dad, which Isaac thought was going to be kind of terrible. The truth is stranger than terrible.

 

On Friday, they watch the X-Files with Stiles’s dad. Stiles sprawls out on the couch and plops his head in Isaac’s lap, and Isaac is suitably impressed when the Sheriff guesses all the twists, until Stiles calls up (inches away from his penis) “He owns every season, he’s watched this four times Isaac, don’t let him fool you. He’s good, but he’s not that good.”

Stiles’s dad huffs and puffs for maybe ten minutes before Isaac pretends to get lost and then asks, very quietly and very politely, what’s going on.

Stiles tries to answer, but he’s a little lost, too, and when Stiles’s dad corrects them, it’s with a smile on his face.

 

Later in the afternoon, as they’re making lunch (turkey sandwiches and re-heated green bean casserole), Stiles goes to the bathroom. Isaac feels pathetic and stupid and small but he can’t help following his boyfriend’s back with scared eyes.

“Son.”

It takes Isaac almost a full minute to realize Mr. Stilinski is talking to him, but when he does he jumps around, makes sure his entire front is facing Mr. Stilinski, and realizes he’s hunching enough to meet the much shorter man’s eyes.

He doesn’t correct his posture.

“Yes sir?” His pulse is coming too fast, _fuck_ it is ridiculous how bad he is with adult men who’re in a position of power over him, it is _sad_ how terrified he is right now.

“Look, I know you’re pretty freaked out and you don’t like me much anyways, but it’s obligatory, okay? I doubt you’re gonna do anything, you seem like a sweet kid, but if you hurt my son I’m gonna have to...well, I don’t know what I’ll do, and I don’t want to actually threaten you, just safe to say it wouldn’t be a good thing. For you to do that to my boy.”

Isaac has no idea what ‘that’ would be but he’s seen this on TV before, knew to expect this. Apparently it’s a real thing and that’s kind of funny, thinking of his own father threatening to break someone’s legs if they hurt him is kind of funny, and he’s so afraid to contradict Mr. Stilinski but he can’t help it, he has to say something. “I like you. Sir. I just. You know, scared. It’s not something I can shake. But I won’t. Hurt him. Your son. He’s good. For me. He’s good for me. I want him around, I want to keep him around.”

Mr. Stilinski smiles at him, this huge bright bold thing that makes Isaac’s stomach hurt. “Damn right he is, kiddo. Don’t forget it.” The Sheriff walks up to him slowly, lifts one hand in _300_ -level slow-mo, and places a hand on his shoulder. The movement is so deliberate Isaac can’t mistake it for anything else.

The hand pants him once, slow, and then the Sheriff moves back out of Isaac’s personal space and tells him to straighten up some, he’s gonna hurt himself doing that.

As Isaac forces his spine straighter even though he’s still desperate to cower, he thinks _my dad never told me to stand up straight_. And he wonders why.

 

That afternoon he and Stiles fall asleep at roughly the same time during a Firefly marathon, and when Isaac wakes up Stiles is wrapped around him, arms around his waist, legs tangled together, face in his hair, and Stiles’s dad is sitting not five feet away from them in the semi-dark of the setting sun.

Isaac panics for a little while, until he hears the Sheriff snore.

 

Saturday, sitting at the kitchen table with Stiles and his dad, cards in hand, he thinks that this is probably the best vacation he’s ever had, regardless of how it started. “Got any eights?”

Stiles’s mouth pinches in and he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. The face is so full of apocalyptic rage Isaac has to grin, and when he takes the eight of hearts from Stiles and their fingers brush, Stiles’s face relaxes just the slightest bit and he starts to smile.

“Watch out kiddo—this one holds a grudge.” The Sheriff’s hunched over his cards, looking more like a little old turtle than a big scary cop, and for a few hours Isaac is comfortable in his own scarred-up skin, because he forgets the scars even exist.

 

Stiles groans long and loud as Isaac shakes his shoulder, so of course he does the only thing he can do to make it quit sounding like he and his boyfriend are having sex while _his boyfriend’s father_ waits downstairs in his night sweats to tell aforementioned boyfriend goodbye.

He latches his mouth onto Stiles’s and kisses him awake.

Of course, once Stiles opens his eyes all the way he draws back, eyes wide in the light from the hallway. “Isaac! I have morning breath!” Like it’s a sin against humanity or something.

It’s not the worst thing Isaac has ever tasted. He shrugs lightly and pulls the covers down Stiles’s body. It’s the only way to keep him from curling up and going right back to sleep, apparently.

Stiles groans again. “Come _on_ , it’s cold!”

Isaac wraps his arms around Stiles and drags him close. “Mhm. The sooner we get on the road with the heater running the better.” Isaac knows that Stiles can (and will) fall back asleep just from his body heat, so he lets go and stands up after only a couple minutes.

He’s already changed into one of the disused pairs of slacks he brought with him (charcoal, wool, and a little thicker than his usual) and a t-shirt that he didn’t bring at all. It’s a little shorter than he’s used to, but he doesn’t exactly mind.

Stiles is in flannel pajamas and a t-shirt, and Isaac thinks he looks beautiful. “Mm, Isaac, how are you so awake already? It’s like four in the morning...” Stiles starts to get up and then flops back down on the bed, rolling over so he can get onto his knees first.

Watching Stiles try to get up in the morning is kind of adorable. Isaac likes it way too much.

“Four thirty, actually. I’m already packed and everything. Come on, there’re waffles downstairs.”

“ _Lies_. There are more turkey sandwiches downstairs and like six tupperware containers of stuff for the dorm. Don’t even, Isaac, I’ve been at this game way longer than you have.” Stiles finally manages to sit on the edge of the bed and yawn huge, stretching back at the same time as he draws his arms up over his head and for fuck’s sake, Isaac _just_ got rid of his morning wood, Stiles needs to quit. He’s too sexy, especially for someone who just woke up.

Stiles scrubs his hands through his dark hair and then looks up at Isaac all quizzical, like he doesn’t know what that expression is. “Are you hungry or something? You look like you’re about to start drooling, man.”

Isaac laughs and shakes his head, but he realizes that Stiles isn’t kidding when he blinks, shrugs, and then stands up, rolling his shoulders out. “Okay, that’s not fair, you don’t get to do that.” Isaac pushes Stiles back down on the bed and straddles his lap without even thinking about it, latching onto his mouth and wrapping his arms around Stiles’s shoulders firmly.

Stiles groans into his mouth and answers Isaac’s enthusiasm with some of his own for a few minutes before once again realizing that his mouth isn’t minty-fresh like Isaac’s. He pulls away with a ‘smack’ and Isaac takes the opportunity to trail kisses down Stiles’s neck, just because he can. “W-w— _fuck_ —what’s this for? What’d I do?”

Isaac pulls up, whispers “you’re just hot” right against the shell of Stiles’s ear, and then abruptly untangles himself and pulls out his phone. “And you now have _fifteen_ minutes to get ready before we’ll be late leaving. Good job, Stiles.” Isaac leaves the room before he can re-attach himself to Stiles’s mouth, grinning like an asshole and grabbing his sky blue sweater on the way out.

This is going to be a problem. It’s like Stiles has some magical aura that Isaac is drawn to, something that calls to his very _skin_ and begs him to come back and touch.

He’s so fucked.

Stiles rockets down the stairs ten minutes after Isaac settles himself in a dining chair beside Stiles’s dad, grabs the (dying) flowers Isaac got him from the sink, and then bolts back upstairs. Isaac only registers that Stiles is wearing a hoodie by one arm and has the other arm tucked in his pants after Stiles is already gone.

Isaac can’t help himself. He follows, but only pokes his head in the door, because he’s gonna try to stop being full-body all over Stiles all the time. He has to. It’s weird, it’s a weird thing to want, Stiles is gonna start thinking he’s clingy. Fuck, _he_ already thinks he’s clingy.

“What’re you doing?”

Stiles is taping the flowers on the wall, upside down, Isaac can see that very well. He finishes securing them before he turns around slowly, blushing all down his neck. “I uh. No one’s ever gotten me flowers before. I wanted to...keep them?”

Isaac wants to keep _Stiles_. Instead of telling him that, he walks into the room, untucks Stiles’s hoodie from his jeans, and helps him get it on properly. Then he kisses Stiles’s forehead, and one eyelid, and his cheek. “So keep them.” _Keep me. Please keep me. Let me keep you._ “C’mon.”

 

Isaac’s hand is _literally_ on the doorknob when Stiles grabs his hand and looks at him, so intense it’s a little scary. “You’re not going out like that.”

Isaac knows, absolutely knows, that his entire face is broadcasting ‘what the fuck did you just say to me’ but he can’t _help_ it, what? “You might wanna rephrase that, Stiles.” His jaw is clenched and he’s trying so, so hard not to get mad. No one tells him how to dress. No one. Not anymore.

Stiles’s whole face goes into panic mode and Isaac can taste the apology before it even comes out of Stiles’s mouth. “No, no—sorry, I didn’t mean it like _that_ , just—you’re gonna get yourself sick again, don’t go out yet, okay? Please? I’ll be right back.” Stiles tears up the stairs again before Isaac can even answer, and for some reason it makes him smile that Stiles cares so much.

If anything about this was normal for him he’d probably just be pissed that Stiles was trying to tell him what he should and shouldn’t do, but when Stiles comes down with a fuckton of fabric in his arms Isaac can’t keep the stupid smile off his face.

Stiles isn’t quite looking at him, though, like he’s expecting Isaac to be nuclear levels of pissed, and he passes this huge olive-green parka over to him. “This is my dad’s. Don’t freak out, I asked him.” Mr. Stilinski’d gone to lie back down after the official ‘goodbye’s, and if he said it was okay, Isaac guesses he can just deal with it.

The synthetic fabric smells very faintly of Old Spice and it makes his stomach turn, but he ignores the sensation as Stiles moves on to the next item.

“I know they look dumb, okay, but you’re not allowed to rag on them, they’re the only earmuffs we have that don’t double as hearing protection at shooting ranges.” Stiles sounds so worried and so insecure and he’s still not looking at Isaac’s grinning face, this is ridiculous.

Isaac places the tips of two fingers under Stiles’s chin and makes him pick his head up, that wide stupid grin still stretching his mouth. “Stiles. Thanks. Thank you. They’re perfect.”

They’re actually horrifying, white crochet all over with a rainbow pattern of plaid on either ear muff and white fur on the actual inside, but Isaac doesn’t mind. Stiles wants to keep him warm so badly, all he can think is ‘sweet’ and if Stiles handed him a silky pink thong right now he’d probably put it on without question.

Okay, yeah, he’d definitely put it on without question. But that’s something to discuss later.

He bends so Stiles can place the earmuffs on his head reverently, like Stiles is crowning him king of their little bubble of safety and comfort, their little bubble that’s starting to feel like what Isaac imagines home to be.

Next come a pair of mittens from one of Stiles’s coat pockets, the same white crochet as the earmuffs, and a little too big for Isaac once they get them on together. He doesn’t really _need_ Stiles to help him, but it’s so fucking nice that he wants to Isaac just lets him. “I get the feeling these are part of a set.”

Stiles kisses Isaac’s cheek, and Isaac has no idea how they suddenly got so close together but they’re practically toe to toe less than two inches away from the door. And it’s nice, it’s warm. Isaac feels safe.

“They are. They were my mom’s, don’t do anything stupid with them on.” Stiles’s eyes go all sad on him and Isaac’s chest _hurts_.

He says the first thing he can think of. “Your mom had really big hands.”

“Yeah. She could do tenth chords on the piano without even flinching.” Stiles spreads his fingers, fingers Isaac wants splayed out on his skin again and in his mouth and all _kinds_ of other places. “Dad says I get these from her. Did you notice how stubby his fingers are?” Stiles is trying to keep it playful but his poor voice just sounds heavy.

“No.” He laces his fingers through Stiles’s and brings their joined hands to his mouth, so he can kiss over Stiles’s knuckles. “Just noticed how much I like yours.”

Finally, finally, he gets the fucking door open and yeah, it’s cold, but it’s not the worst cold he’s ever felt.

“Hey, hang on a second!” Stiles sounds damn-near offended and they’re running at least 20 minutes late now, they will never ever be on time for anything as a couple.

And hey, it’s good to know that ‘as a couple’ has officially made its way into Isaac’s mental vocabulary.

Isaac knows he looks exasperated to hell and back, but he can’t keep the expression off his face. “What now, long johns? Stiles, I’m as prepared as I’m gonna be, can we just...”

He trails off as Stiles tugs a scarf from his coat pocket. A gray scarf, made of fabric that just _looks_ soft. It’s so weird, when Isaac sees it, he knows immediately that it was bought for him, and he wonders when and where and how long it took Stiles to pick it out, how many scarves he picked up before he decided on this one, when he even _bought_ it...

How long ago did Stiles get him a present? And when did Stiles decide he was worth one?

Stiles puts it on him expertly, ties it the way Sherlock from the BBC series would wear it, and Isaac’s heart does ridiculous things in his chest. He’s never once seen Stiles wear a scarf. Who’d he get to teach him that? Did he watch youtube videos?

“Is it too tight?” Stiles takes his hands away, gives him a little half-smile, and then Isaac has him against the doorframe, trying to kiss his lungs out.

 

“How’re you doing, baby?” Stiles is navigating the streets expertly, like he knows this place like the back of his hand, and he probably does but Isaac can’t think about it.

He’s staring into the floorboard like he could just crawl in there and it’ll eat him and he can be done with this whole mess. “Fine. Fine.” Not fine. Not fine. Gonna have an anxiety attack. Not fine. Not fine.

“Passing Arby’s right now, okay? We’ll be out of town in maybe ten more minutes, don’t worry.” Isaac glances up at a flicker of movement and sees Stiles outlined against an amber streetlight, gloved hands clenching and unclenching the steering wheel.

Isaac leans over in the bucket seat until he can get a hand in Stiles’s coat pocket and it just sits there, against his cell phone. He leans over further until his face is against Stiles’s bicep, and counts Stiles’s breaths until they’re over the county line.

It takes more like twenty minutes, but Isaac doesn’t notice.

 

“Hey, can you get that for me?”

Isaac jumps, turns from watching the trees pass to where Stiles is looking at him a little nervously. Isaac’s not sure where the music’s gone, all he can hear is “turn it off, like a light switch, just go click! It’s a cool little Mormon trick” and then it repeats and it’s louder—

“Whose ringtone is this?” He’s amused, yeah, but also, what the _fuck_?

“Derek.”

“ _Oh_.” Yeah, from what he knows of Stiles and Derek, that makes perfect sense. He snakes Stiles’s phone out of his pocket and swipes the screen to answer. “Hello, you’ve reached the cell of one Stiles Stilinski, who is currently operating heavy machinery, this is Isaac Lahey, can I pass something along for you?” He tries to do it deadpan but he giggles a little right at the end and threads his fingers into Stiles’s hair, stretching his arm out to do it as he leans back into his own seat.

The connection is a little static-y, but not awful. “Oh hey, Isaac. Thanks for saving me a phone call. You got Enjorlas, Stiles is your Grantaire, congratulations, rehearsals start in January, come by sometime next week to pick up your scripts blah blah blah practice a lot and for god’s sake don’t get a haircut. If you need help with something text me. Get my number from Stiles. Good job, by the way. Bye!”

Isaac hears a little ‘click’ as Derek hangs up and stares at Stiles, completely stunned. “Did you hear that?”

“We got it, didn’t we?” Stiles is grinning this huge stupid cocky smile and Isaac laughs, bright and loud and he doesn’t even fucking care.

“Yeah. Yeah, we did.”

In the last few blurry days Isaac’d completely forgotten about auditions, about the play. All that had existed was Beacon Hills and _fear_. But now they’re leaving Beacon Hills behind, and all of Isaac’s baggage, headed back to a place where things aren’t quite so _goddamn_ heavy.

Except...he’s still supposed to tell Stiles. He has to. He knows his face has faded back down to seriousness, that his arms are now locked to his sides, but adrenaline is now rushing through his veins, and he’s never exactly had a positive reaction to that.

“Hey Stiles? You okay with me Google Maps-ing us up a diner or something?”

Stiles smiles over at him, completely unsuspecting. “Sure. You know we have a ton of food in the back though, right? You really don’t have to treat me to second breakfast.” Stiles laughs at his own joke-slash-reference and Isaac desperately wishes there was a way to put this off, but that would be unfair, that would make him a huge piece of shit, he can’t do that.

“I was thinking we could maybe just get some coffee. And. Talk.”

Stiles’s neck audibly cracks as he turns his head to look at Isaac hard enough that he might have just given himself whiplash, and Isaac hopes desperately that there’s not a five-car pileup in front of of them or a deer or something, because neither of them would even notice. “Talk. Like. _Talk_. About—”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t have to, Isaac.” Stiles is slowly shifting his posture to look back at the road. “You really don’t. Not if you don’t want to.”

“I know.”


	10. Won't I Skin You To The Bone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the talk. And makeouts, obviously.
> 
> Spau is reached, and classes begin again.

He’s gone through four cups of coffee, which either means that he was extraordinarily thirsty or Isaac has been in the bathroom for-fucking-ever.

The polite but uncomfortable-looking waitress is currently refilling his cup, and her eyes slip right and then left before she leans forward a bit as she puts the cup down. “Dude, are you okay?”

He offers a twitchy little half-smile thing at her and she winces in sympathy before pulling a fuckton of creamer out of her apron. There are 46 tiny empty plastic cups already on the table and it looks like about fifteen full ones have entered this equation.

When he first started ripping them open his fingers weren’t shaking.

Stiles dumps ten into the stupidly strong coffee as his leg resumes jogging up and down. He’s been trying to stop it and just sit _still_ but he was never good at that and will never be good at that and hopefully one day he’ll stop hating himself for it. He doesn’t even notice when the waitress makes her exit until he looks up to say he’s fine and she’s already wandered away.

The only reason he’s not thinking Isaac left and is currently hitchhiking on the interstate ramp they just pulled out of is because he can see the bathroom door from here, but he _is_ starting to panic. That’s not even sort of a question.

He starts biting and releasing the right side of his bottom lip rapidly, almost like he’s plucking out a rhythm on it, before he realizes how obnoxious that sounds and stops just as Isaac drags himself out of the bathroom, blue eyes squinted, trudging like he’s facing a strong headwind, a wanna-be tornado that has turned cars over right in front of his eyes. If Stiles had to define Isaac’s posture it would be ‘beaten’ and that scares the shit out of him.

Isaac slumps into the booth across from him and eyes the coffee he ordered but didn’t touch before excusing himself.

It’s probably cold as hell and it’s strong enough to stand on anyway, Stiles wants to warn him not to drink it without dumping a ton of creamers in there, but it seems like that’s not going to be a problem, because Isaac runs his fingers over the handle and then grasps it tightly, like he’s clutching an anchor, like that fucking coffee cup is the only thing keeping him sitting there.

Stiles desperately wants to be the thing Isaac’s clutching, but maybe they’re not there yet. He leans forward, puts his elbows on the table and hunches down in a conscious mimic of Isaac’s posture, hoping to put him at ease. “Feel any better?” It’s obvious that Isaac doesn’t, but that’s still what you’re supposed to say.

“Not particularly.” Isaac sighs and curls down a bit more and it’s too much for Stiles, he looks too vulnerable and too in pain to just sit here across the table and stare like this.

“Scoot over a little.”

Isaac looks up into his face for the first time and says without any hesitation at all, “No.” His voice is firm and near as bitter as the coffee.

Stiles doesn’t mean to make a noise like he’s been punched in the gut, but it happens anyway. “Okay. Sorry. Okay. Do you need me to do anything?”

Isaac’s shoulders start to shake and his hands visibly clutch at the coffee cup so hard his knuckles turn white before he moves the thing across the table and then jerkily twitches his arms down into his lap, where Stiles can’t see them. “I need you to stop looking at me like that.”

Stiles’s eyes widen and he looks away completely, because he has no idea what he’s doing or not doing or how he’s fucking up here. He starts counting the ceiling tiles instinctively, not because it matters but because it’s something he can give his brain to do to take some of the pressure off. “Done. What next?”

“Don’t—” Stiles can _hear_ the the word choke off, and he turns his head abruptly to find Isaac sitting there with his eyes squeezed shut, visibly shaking, swallowing over and over. Finally Isaac breathes in deep, long. Stiles imagines feeling that broad chest expand because his head is settled there, trying to calm himself down.

His boyfriend speaks deliberately, like he has to trace the words inside his mind before he can press them from his lips. “Don’t treat me. Like I’m going to break.” Isaac opens his eyes and looks at Stiles, and Stiles doesn’t see anything breakable in his eyes.

The truth is, hearing people say that someone is ‘broken’ or that they need to be ‘fixed’ absolutely makes Stiles’s skin crawl. _Things_ break.

People just adapt. Sometimes they adapt badly, and they’re ragged and in pain all the time and they do stupid shit to make that pain ease up. Crazy shit, sometimes, too. And that’s fine. Because they’re still adapting, and they probably always will be.

‘Broken’ implies ‘non-functional’, and you’d only have to look at Isaac to know how untrue that was.

He wishes he could say this to Isaac, but the look on Isaac’s face isn’t one that invites waxing philosophical about people that’ve been hurt.

Isaac runs a hand through his hair, eyes darting away from Stiles’s, and that’s when Stiles remembers _he hasn’t actually fucking responded yet god_.

“I--I--I’m not. Okay?” He sucks a deep, slow breath and forces himself to sit up. His lips twitch into a smile that is so false it actually hurts a little, but he’s certain it doesn’t _look_ that way. Isaac’s face has gone unreadable, and Stiles has no idea what he needs to do to make that shit snap back so Isaac is himself again but he would do _anything_.

“Isaac. I promise. I don’t think you’re gonna break. I don’t think you even can, okay?” He wants to remind Isaac that he in no way has to do this. It’s killing him but Stiles can wait a little longer.

He doesn’t though, because he knows Isaac knows that already and it’d just be delaying the inevitable.

Isaac shoves one hand in his beautiful dark blonde hair and looks away from Stiles like he’s trying to hold something huge in. “My father...he’s dead.”

Stiles nods even though Isaac’s eyes are going glassy. He knows this. This sucks and is sad and he wants to take Isaac’s hand and say ‘my mom is dead, I understand, at least a little’, but Isaac doesn’t want to touch him right now so he doesn’t.

“My dad is dead.” Stiles’s forehead wrinkles as he concentrates intently on Isaac’s face. Why does he look like he’s about to cut and run? This is a hard subject, obviously, but Stiles would think--

“My dad is dead and he used to beat me.” Isaac is speaking slowly, clearly enunciating every single syllable. “It started when I was nine. It escalated. He broke three of my ribs, my hand twice. He used to lock me in this old broken freezer so I wouldn’t run away like my mom did.” Isaac is gone, Isaac is absolutely gone, and Stiles is terrified out of his mind but he just sits there, willing his body to be perfectly, absolutely still.

He’s pretty sure Isaac is disengaging right now, floating away high and far and unreachable, and Stiles lets him go, because holy fucking _god_. He wants to be on the other side of the booth, arms wrapped around Isaac’s wide shoulders, one hand in his hair as he kisses away what he can and murmurs away the rest with something, there has to be _something_ he can say. Of course Isaac never wanted to go back to Beacon Hills. Of _course_ he didn’t.

“I--I understand, Isaac. You don’t have to talk about it anymore if--if you don’t want. I’d never wanna go ba--” He is cut off abruptly as Isaac’s frosted, too-wide eyes glide to his face, pin his mouth closed and his pupils on Isaac.

“I’m not finished.” So quiet. Not scared at all, just...bland. Like something with the emotional equivalent of saltine crackers is controlling Isaac’s body and voice now instead of an actual human being. “I can stop. If it’s too much. It’s fine.” And just like that Stiles can see Isaac shutting down completely, and he panics, he absolutely panics for almost too long.

Isaac looks like he’s melted down into his seat by the time Stiles finally figures out how to move his lips and tongue in tandem to form complete words again. It’s horrifying, it’s one of the worst experiences of his life, not being able to speak during those precious seconds, not being able to reel Isaac back to him. That should probably tell him something, but he already knows he’s stupidly romantic and that Isaac is everything he wants. “ _No_. Isaac. I don’t want you to stop. Not if you don’t want to. I want whatever you’ll give me. _Please_. If you need to, that’s--”

Isaac actually begins his first word right on top of Stiles’s last. “The cops thought I killed him.”

Stiles’s stomach turns. For all intents and purposes, ‘the cops’ includes his dad. Fuck. Holy fuck. Oh god he might actually throw up this time. It’s like missing the last stair in the dark, that sensation of falling even when your foot finds purchase again. They are even more connected than he’d originally thought, and he hates it for both of them. “ _How_?”

Maybe curiosity didn’t kill the cat. Maybe the cat ran into the street on purpose because it felt so incredibly fucking _guilty_.

He has the air in his lungs that’s meant to be ‘I’m sorry just ignore everything I say I’m an idiot Isaac I’m sorry’ when Isaac answers him. “He locked me in the freezer for a few days. I wanna say it was six, but I honestly don’t know. He had a heart attack at the top of the stairs right after he let me out. Fell all the way back down. Was still alive when he hit the bottom.” Isaac’s eyes drift away from Stiles’s face, to the table, his perfect cheekbones now rouged with what Stiles is assuming is shame. “For a minute. Maybe less.”

“You didn’t kill him.” It’s not a question; it’s the most obvious thing that’s ever come out of Stiles’s mouth. No shit Isaac didn’t kill him. If a person has a heart attack at the top of a set of stairs it is highly unlikely that things will end well.

A little bit more focus comes into Isaac’s eyes, and he looks _at_ Stiles instead of through him. Stiles isn’t quite Mr. Cellophane anymore and he couldn’t be more grateful. “No. I didn’t.”

Stiles licks his lips and finally lets up a bit on his control so he can fidget, eyes as open as he can make them. He knows from experience that the second Isaac sees any kind of pity in his face that’s it. Isaac won’t tell him another word.

“You can ask questions.” Isaac’s whole body slumps down just a bit more, and he brings his other hand up from his lap, supporting his head with a hand under it and an elbow against the table.

“Did you ever have a dog?” Stiles has no idea why this is the first thing to pop into his head, but it is, and it’s out of his mouth like nothing, like he’s back in high school and he doesn’t know how to do anything but let his mouth run off like what he says doesn’t matter, and yeah maybe on a lot of levels it still doesn’t but it matters right now but he’s an _idiot_ so it of course he doesn’t say anything that’s worth the effort, energy, or time.

Isaac sits there looking stunned for maybe a solid minute. Stiles is rapidly coloring and he’s shifting more and more, losing control of himself in a way that makes his gag reflex try to activate, makes his chest pinch shut in a way that it hasn’t since oh god please fucking _no_ \--

The blood rushing in his ears, the light warping his vision, the way his limbs are tensing, all these things suddenly have to compete with Isaac’s smile, and they’re just blown out of the water. Isaac is so beautiful that he literally takes Stiles’s breath away, and Stiles wants to gag at his own ridiculousness because all he can think is that Isaac’s eyes are _sparkling_. 

“No. I’ve never had a dog.” The hand in Isaac’s hair slips down to the table a little hesitantly, and Isaac slides his hand towards Stiles without picking it up.

Stiles gets his breath back long enough to laugh, just barely, and reach forward to touch instead of take. He barely strokes at Isaac’s hand with his fingertips, wondering if Isaac can feel the texture of his fingerprints.

Isaac smile stays on, and he covers Stiles’s hand with his own briefly and squeezes before he takes it away, so at least that’s something. “Sorry. I uh...I’m bad with touching sometimes. I get...not scared exactly...”

“Anxious.” Stiles is pretty sure he gets it, at least a little, if not for the same reasons. “I don’t--what do you want me to ask?”

Isaac shuffles around a little and suddenly his knee is appearing out from under the table. He wraps both arms around it and settles his chin on the cap. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s how that works. What do you want to know? I don’t wanna have to talk about my dad or Beacon Hills or anything about my life there while we’re at school. Like you said, it’s...it’s my safe place. I want it to stay that.”

“Oh.” Suddenly doing this at some random innocuous Waffle House they’ll likely never see again ever makes all the sense in the world. “Can I--can I ask what happened to your mom?”

“Yes.” Isaac is all here, all with him, and he’s still smiling just barely, so this can’t be nearly as fresh as the ‘dad’ thing must be. And fuck, wait, now that he’s thinking about it--

“I’m asking about that, then. And the stuff with your dad--did that happen like...before school started?”

Isaac nods, looking a little bit terrified of something indefinable--maybe everything at once. “Yeah. I was in lockup for Orientation. I was let out and cleared of all charges the day before the freshman welcome party. I mostly hung out in the back.” He gives Stiles another gift of a smile and Stiles wants to kiss and suck on all his scars until Isaac forgets they’re there, wants to hold him and make out with him and make him come so many times and so hard that he forgets all this, every bad thing he’s ever had to go through, _god_ this is so painful to hear.

His face betrays nothing, and he gives a small smile in return.

“My mom left. When I was seven or eight or something, I honestly don’t remember anymore. A few years after my brother died, she killed herself. Our address was the one on her license. She was living in Santa Fe. I was...I dunno. Fourteen, maybe?” 

There is way too much information in that sentence. Stiles feels frozen. The most glaring thing jumps out at him and out of his mouth before he has time to stop it. “You have a brother?”

“Had.” Isaac’s smile goes soft, sadder in some undefinable way. “He died when I was thirteen. Shot. I’m still kind of fuzzy on the details, not really sure which Middle Eastern country he died in. He went into the military. Like I was supposed to.” He shrugs, and there’s his hand again, moving towards Stiles as if it’s pressing through a force field.

“That sucks.” It’s a stupid thing to say, but it’s not like there’s anything he _can_ say that’ll actually help. Not that Isaac even needs help. He dealt with all this long before Stiles came along and he’ll deal with it after he goes.

If he goes.

God he just really does not want to go, not even a little. Stiles can’t take his eyes off Isaac’s hand on the table, so close to where he left his own, and he pushes his hand forward and doesn’t even rub this time, just makes their fingers touch.

Isaac sighs almost inaudibly. “Yeah. I guess. It’s kind of a disaster.”

“What is?” Stiles’s eyes aren’t on Isaac’s face, just their fingers, touching so lightly that he feels like he’s about to go out of his fucking mind. He doesn’t realize how soft his voice has gone, like he’s suddenly shy.

Isaac’s hand creeps forward and he laces their fingers together. “My life. Well, you know, not so much now, but...yeah. I actually donated my dad’s insurance payoff, that’s how bad I felt. The rest, my brother’s stuff, the money from the sale of the house, it’s in trust until I finish college.”

“Why?” He’s rubbing his thumb over Isaac’s, a small smile on his mouth, because things between them are suddenly amazingly quiet and for once it’s not something Stiles feels any need to fix. The not-silence is okay. It doesn’t reek of sick people and really bad days.

“Mr. Whittemore set it up. Said it’d give me incentive.” Isaac shrugs lightly and starts rubbing _his_ thumb over Stiles’s index finger’s third knuckle. “I need it, honestly. The only reason I didn’t drop out freshman year is because of that money and the fact that my checks would stop coming if I wasn’t in school.”

“Seems pretty hardcore...do you not like college?” Stiles looks up from their linked hands to find Isaac watching them as well, looking for all the world like he’s never felt more comfortable. His back is even straight.

He shrugs again and Stiles smiles watching the way his mouth moves when he speaks. “It’s not that I don’t like it, really. It was just hard. I had no idea who I was. And I was a huge asshole, and for a while I kind of thought _that_ was me, you know? That I was just...just an asshole. There was nothing any deeper.” Isaac’s eyes never leave their fingers.

“And now?” The words whisper on his lips, tickle over his own mouth. He thinks he knows the answer, but he wants to hear it.

Isaac looks up at him, and the smile on his face is so wide and open Stiles wants to tug Isaac out of the Waffle House and back into the Jeep, shove him into the back and drape over him and just _be_ with him, he’s so fucking beautiful. “Now I’m a dancer.”

Stiles squeezes his hand gently, heart swelling to exactly Isaac Lahey size, _god_ his chest hurts, what the fuck is this feeling? “Yup.”

There’s a silence that stretches for no more than two minutes but it feels like an awfully long time, and Stiles is okay with it, doesn’t try to cover it or divert it or something, because just looking at Isaac right now is enough, he doesn’t need other noise to cancel out the too-fast goings on in his head.

“So are we okay now?” Isaac, improbably impossibly _insanely_ enough, actually looks concerned. Stiles is so lost, why in the _world_ \--

But he’s always been pretty good at reading people, and years of theater training have only increased this talent.

Isaac is scared. Even though it’s damn-near impossible to see, it’s obvious, because Stiles is looking for subtlety. The way his breathing slows down, from watching his mouth move and twist like he’s plucking at skin all over the damp inside, how pale he is...

“More than okay.” He squeezes Isaac’s hand lightly and tilts his head down, so his eyes look huge and hopefully puppy-ish. “ _Now_ will you scoot over?”

Isaac shakes his head, but he’s smiling. He lifts Stiles’s hand to his face and kisses his middle knuckle, fear draining from his eyes to be replaced by something _much_ more appropriate, at least to Stiles.

“How about we go to the car?” The little smile Isaac gives him, two parts want and one part shy, is enough to make Stiles drop a twenty on the table and just fucking walk away.

 

They’re already almost an hour off schedule and Stiles has no plan on stopping any time soon.

The Jeep windows are fogged up and sweating and the heater isn’t even on. Stiles’s mom’s mittens are roving along his hemline like Isaac can feel through them and Isaac’s breath is so so warm against him. They haven’t taken their coats off but both are open and Stiles’s mom’s earmuffs are still on Isaac’s ears, which just won’t do.

“Mmm, c’mere--” There is no reason to say this, because Isaac is currently on his lap in the driver’s seat (which is pushed back as far as it’ll go and laid down until it rests against the back seat, to accommodate his amazingly long boyfriend). He lets himself smack another wet, deep kiss against Isaac’s swollen lips and tugs the earmuffs off. Isaac’s hair goes staticy where the fur touches it and Stiles grins before tossing the relic in the passenger seat and running his fingers through Isaac’s puffed up hair.

They’ve been kissing, just kissing, for a solid hour, and it’s nowhere near long enough.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, you know that?” Stiles feels every word against his tongue and wishes they were all Isaac’s tongue, every movement of his own just reminds him of the absence of Isaac’s.

Isaac of course blushes and finally slips off both mittens and places them (carefully, Stiles is pleased to note) in Stiles’s dad’s coat pocket.

Stiles is much less careful with his own gloves. They completely pass out of his mind once they’re off and his hands are free to feel.

He slowly eases them through Isaac’s hair as Isaac feels at his stomach, and he’s not really that toned, he’s feeling massively insecure until Isaac whimpers into his mouth, so quiet, of course so quiet, but Stiles is getting better about interpreting hot-Isaac speak. Isaac doesn’t talk worth a damn in bed, not unless Stiles does something that he _particularly_ enjoys, so he’s had to learn some of Isaac’s cues.

He wants to spend sixteen years in bed with Isaac and learn every single thing that makes his skin tingle, but for now his limited knowledge will suffice.

Whimpering means ‘you are doing something not-on-purpose that is making me feel amazing’ and it’s Stiles’s third favorite noise. He smiles into the kiss and moves a hand to Isaac’s neck to deepen the kiss even further, probably escalating the whole thing to the point of getting each other off in the car and doing a walk-of-shame back into the Waffle House to change pants, but then there’s a rapping at the door, a metal-on-glass sound that makes Isaac instantly freeze.

“Ohoho _shit_ \--” Stiles laughs as Isaac hides his face in his neck, because he’s ninety percent sure he knows what that noise means. Someone called the fucking cops.

He puts his seat back to semi-normal reclining position, only thinking of being able to reach the window crank, but what he doesn’t think about is that Isaac’s now scrunched up in his lap like a Great Dane thinking it’s a chihuahua. He snorts, shakes his head a little, and then realizes how hard Isaac is trembling. Bad trembling. Not about-to-come trembling.

Fuck.

He puts a hand in Isaac’s hair as he rolls the window down, the window that is dripping slightly with condensation, wow. “Uh. Hello officer. Can we help you?”

The lady looks to be in her early forties and she regards them with a slow smile. Oh yeah, they’re totally fine. She’s not even mad.

“Yeah, just got a call for some kids messing around in a parking lot, stopped in to clear ‘em out. Only you two look a little more like men than boys, am I right? College?” She shakes her head a little and crosses her arms, but still seems amicable over-all.

Isaac isn’t loosening up a single bit. Stiles lets a slow grin spread across his face. “They seriously called out a 10-66 on us, didn’t they? Sorry, officer, we’re just headed back home, got a little carried away and didn’t want to stay on the road. Kissing is hazardous to driving, you know? Would you like to see my license and registration?”

She raises her eyebrow at him, but now her smile’s cranked up to full wattage. Stiles thinks she’s really, really pretty for a lady who could possibly maybe arrest them. “No, hon, that’s okay. Ya’ll just move on now and try to keep it in your pants until you get home. Or stop at a motel or something. Be safe.” She mosies away and Isaac still doesn’t come unwound.

Stiles speaks slowly and clearly, trying not to enunciate too hard and make his words jarring. “Isaac. I’m gonna need you to get off my lap now. The lady won’t leave until we do, and as much as I like having you here, I can’t drive with you sitting where you are.”

Isaac moves with almost completely dead eyes, one hand twisted up in his scarf. He unfolds himself into the passenger seat. Lifts up a bit and pulls Stiles’s mom’s earmuffs out from under his (delicious and non-bony) ass. Puts them on his head, puts the gloves on his hands.

Stiles rolls the window back up and starts the car, but before he can actually put his hands on the wheel Isaac’s taking his wrists and moving his hands over the gear shift, into the air right between their bodies.

“Babe, what’re you--” Stiles cuts off when Isaac pulls one of his gloves from the floorboard.

Isaac delicately slips on each glove as if he were dressing an invalid, and Stiles can’t help but kiss his lips before finally pulling out.

He somehow manages to let Isaac have some quiet time to wind down in even though he’s currently so high on caffeine right now he might as well be convicted of drug abuse, but the second they’re free of the white and blue patrol car Isaac slumps in his seat and reaches for Stiles’s sheathed hand.

“I don’t like cops.”

Well, that much wasn’t _fucking_ obvious, thanks for the news flash, Isaac, what’re you gonna say next, you’re a graceful beautiful amazing god who looks great in the most ridiculous earmuffs to ever exist in the women’s section of Sears?

And yes, Stiles picked them out himself. _Because_ they were strange as hell.

Because his mom was strange as hell, and she loved strange things. Proof: Dad. Double proof: Stiles.

Fuck he misses her.

He lightly squeezes Isaac’s hand and drops their fingers into his lap, not for any real reason. Actually, he’s so buzzed right now, he’s not even sure exactly where his thought processes are going. “I’m aware. Do you like my dad?” Oh fuck, wait, what? This is a bad question, this is an insensitive question, does he need to turn around and pick up his fucking filter back at the Waffle House parking lot?

The look Isaac gives him out of the corner of his eye, the bitchiest bitch face he’s ever seen in his entire life (counting his best friend, his best friend’s girlfriend, her two roommates, and his own glorious mug in various reflective surfaces), reaffirms his suspicions, but the actual thing that comes out of Isaac’s mouth makes him snap his eyes toward his boyfriend, fuck he’s probably gonna get them killed on the way home.

“Your dad is awesome.” Like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like the sight of him didn’t literally make Isaac faint. “I mean, I’m fucking terrified of him, but he’s a really good person.” Aaaaand there it is.

Stiles sighs and turns back to the road, more bemused than anything else. “I know it’s not a thing you can help, dude, but just keep in mind when he starts to make you nervous--he can do a perfect Goofy laugh and he asked for Peter Pan’s autograph at Disney two years ago twice. And freaked out when Peter asked him if he was from Never Never Land.” 

Isaac’s crochet-clad thumb rubs over his silicone-covered one, and he laughs softly. “Okay, okay, that’s sweet. I would probably do that, too, though. I mean, Peter Pan is basically my hero.”

Stiles smiles probably too big. “Well, the next time you go just ask him. The guy we talked to was like ridiculously nice. He made my dad feel super young, it was the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.” He flicks his eyes back over to Isaac, unconcerned by the empty stretch of highway ahead of them.

 

Isaac lifts one shoulder awkwardly, almost a stretch, before looking away out his window. “Yeah, if I ever go I’ll do that.”

Stiles barely resists stomping on the break and probably tipping them and creating a really terrible car crash for Local Policeman Number One to clean up later. He doesn’t want to overreact but--but-- “Isaac. Did you live in California like your whole life before college?”

“My parents moved here from my dad’s last army base somewhere near San Diego before I was born so...yeah?” Isaac sounds embarrassed. Like he’s had this conversation and it always ends with him getting made fun of.

“Yeah, we’re fixing this. Not today, but soon. You need to go to Disneyland, it’s like an unwritten rule as a resident of California.” He nods firmly to himself, confirming plans that’ve yet to be hatched, and then he starts actually hatching them, which means he mutters to himself like a total freak for almost a half hour before he realizes Isaac’s shivering and also staring at him in complete silence. Stiles must’ve forgotten to put the radio back on. _And_ the heater.

“Jesus, Isaac, your breath is fog! Dude, you’re allowed to touch the knobs and shit, fuck.” He lets go of Isaac’s hand and switches the heater on, and for an actor he’s pretty fucking slow because he just now fully understands what Isaac’s doing with his eyes.

He’s not all there in them, and Stiles instantly knows where he’s seen this look before. It’s just strange, because he’s never seen it directed at _him_.

Isaac is staring at his mouth and fantasizing his ass off.

“So in your head, where exactly is my mouth right now?” Stiles grins and clasps Isaac’s hand that he can’t actually feel once again.

“Ear...” Isaac’s eyes stay ethereal for another few seconds before he refocuses, and his mouth drops open in obvious (and unnecessary) horror.

Stiles was honestly expecting something much kinkier. It’s nice that something so innocent in comparison to things they’ve actually done has Isaac looking so glassy-eyed, though. He raises an eyebrow and doesn’t comment, though he makes a very clear mental note. “I could always pull over again, y’know...”

“Or not.” Isaac sounds more amused than fearful, though, at least there’s that.

“Yeah...might not be the best idea. But when we get home, the ear thing, that’s totally happening.”

 

The ear thing totally doesn’t happen. In fact, Isaac has to practically carry him up to his room (which Scott and Allison have thankfully vacated). The second Stiles realizes he’s home alone he flops down on the bed and opens his arms, speaking with lips that feel like soup. “Undress me and get in here.”

He keeps his eyes closed until he realizes that all of his clothes aren’t being delicately peeled off. One eye opens just a crack, and there’s Isaac, hovering at his dorm door. Stiles is too intoxicated by near sleep to act aloof about that. “Dude, _nooo_ , c’mon, just sleep here, c’mon, my bed’s not as comfortable but please dude, I’ll get cold without you here.” Which is likely true, it feels like Scott turned the heater off when he went off to Allison’s apartment and it only takes about ten minutes of that thing not functioning to turn this place into an ice cave.

He’s interrupted from his thoughts by the sound of a zipper that’s about a mile long.

His dad’s parka.

“Or undress you first, either way.” He’s starting to feel just a little more awake now, because there are quite a few sounds like fabric falling to the ground. More than just a parka.

A sound that Stiles recognizes as Isaac’s pants rumpling to the floor.

Yeah, he’s a hell of a lot more awake now.

Isaac starts to undress him, an endeavor made rather difficult by the fact that Stiles is laying down. He hums and finally sits up, and his coat rolls off his shoulders in moments. “I like that you undressed you, first. Wish I was less tired. I like taking your clothes off.”

He’s rewarded with a small huff of laughter. “Yeah, and I like it when you don’t wear thirty layers so I can _enjoy_ taking your clothes off.” There’s no bite in the words, though, and a wet kiss lands on his neck.

“Hey, it’s _cold_. And I know you aren’t calling my fashion choices into question.” Fuck, he meant for that to sound playful, not indignant.

Isaac kisses his concerns away sweetly before tugging off all four of his shirts in one go. “Thank god you only wear one pair of pants.”

“I know someone who doesn’t even wear _boxers_...” He finally lifts his lazy arms to feel at Isaac’s t-shirt, and he slips his hands down to find exactly what he just said he wouldn’t. “Wait...” It’s taking his poor road-weary brain a moment.

Isaac straddles him, soothes his fingers through the hair behind his ears. “Give it a second. It’ll come to you.” He sounds way too amused.

“You’re...wearing my boxers?” He finally opens his eyes, and there’s Isaac in all his glory, or strips of him, at least. Scott left the blinds just slightly slitted. He’s grateful for the amber-illuminated pieces he can see, though.

Isaac smiles and then they’re kissing again, warm and slow. Isaac wriggles them under the covers, lays out fully against him, and Stiles drifts off into sleep with Isaac’s mouth still on his skin.

 

He wakes up with a moan that continues long after consciousness has been achieved. Isaac is sucking on his nipple, and apparently doesn’t think it’s appropriate to stop once Stiles cracks open his eyes. He just watches, still moaning, hips bucking up into nothing. Apparently at some point during the night Isaac eased off him and beside him.

There’s still not enough light to really see, but he can feel perfectly fine, can feel Isaac’s tongue slithering over his skin in ways that make him want to scream.

Isaac gives another suckle, this one ending with a nip of teeth, before finally pulling up. “I need your car keys. My Ballet Masterworks book is still in your car.”

Stiles opens his mouth and a whine comes out. He latches his mouth onto Isaac’s and rolls over, arching his back and searching with his hips until they come into contact and Isaac groans into his mouth.

Isaac pulls back just as Stiles starts to work his hips. “Stiles--I-- _class_ \--”

Stiles lays himself more fully against Isaac and works his hips slowly, grinding them against each other through the thin layers of cotton, looking Isaac in the face. “Mmm. If I know you, class in two hours.”

Isaac’s hips rise to meet his own, mouth open in a needy pout. “Three, actually.” The words are barely whispers, and Stiles sinks down to take them from Isaac again.

 

The sticky note on his forehead when his alarm wakes him says “Coffee’s on the desk--so are your keys. Get up now if you want a shower. I set your alarm a half hour early but GET UP ANYWAY. Love, Isaac.”

Love.

Love, Isaac.

Stiles lays in bed for ten whole minutes, just reading the word over and over again. How sweet. Love, Isaac.

He makes it to class 20 minutes early for the first time in his entire college career, and has an actual conversation with his professor that isn’t about grades. He owes Isaac a free coffee.

 

Which he actually has made and waiting by the time Isaac usually comes in. He smiles at it fondly for about forty minutes.

Once he’s certain it’s gone ice-cold, that’s when he starts worrying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Update'll probably be sometime next month. Chapter hasn't been beta'd, any mistakes are mine.


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